Soul to Take
by PRAUS
Summary: Formerly titled Unter den Linden  If he's no longer Prussia, what is he?  Set after WW2 and rated T for Prussia's mouth.  PrussiaXGermanyXRussia - a veritable menage a trois - if it were that kind of story.
1. Chapter 1

The concussion from the blast should have knocked him out completely, so it surprised him to discover he _was _still standing – if only barely. Ludwig, however, was not so lucky.

The north wall of the building they hunkered in had been blown out, sending Gilbert flying backwards and covering his brother in stone and debris. Gilbert could just make out his brother's limbs, arranged at odd angles like some bizarre sculpture. Germany had fallen.

Gilbert made his way over on unsteady legs. Each step punctured by a sharp ringing in his ears as his hearing fought to return.

Another blast and the building trembled. Gilbert hurried to free Ludwig from the rubble. His eyes did not miss the cracks that were forming. One more

well-placed shell and the whole thing would collapse. Gilbert snatched up his brother by the collar and hoisted the blonde nation over his shoulder. Christ he didn't remember the German ever being so heavy.

As he made his way to the Bebelplatz1, Gilbert was only conscious of one thing: finding someplace _die verdammten Russen__2_had not leveled. The dome of St Hedwig's3 loomed into view. The distance across the square seemed to stretch infinitely on. There was no way he could make it. Not with a dead weight over his shoulder and no cover. _Stupid,_ Gilbert thought. _Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. And crazy. _His legs broke into a run, carrying him towards the burned out cathedral.

Gilbert collapsed under the dome – or rather under the gaping hole where the dome should have been. He knew they couldn't stay there but just to rest for a few minutes would be heaven! Gilbert dragged Ludwig over to the western wall. The neighboring Dresdner Bank had cast this side of the cathedral in shadow and it felt somehow safer.

Gilbert sank down beside his brother and fished for a cigarette. A mix of red and black covered the right side of Ludwig's head; but it was the blossom of crimson staining his brother's usually crisp uniform that worried Gilbert the most. It was right over Ludwig's heart. Over Berlin.

Gilbert finally managed to extract a bent cigarette. He fumbled with the lighter, failing several times to coerce a flame. Gilbert cursed the cheap flint before realizing his hands were shaking uncontrollably. He clenched his fists and took a deep, steadying breath. It worked. The lighter flicked to life and Gilbert inhaled the white smoke. Leaning over Ludwig's prone form, Gilbert placed a hand on his brother's neck, feeling for a pulse. Still there. Faint and slow but still beating. Gilbert took another drag from his cigarette and rested his head against the cold stone.

_Goddammit West, if you weren't out cold I'd beat you 'til you were. You brought this on yourself – you and the boss o' yours. I shoulda knocked you over the head all those years ago when you asked for my help in this clusterfuck you call world domination. You're too young – much too young – to understand and see the signs. But I'd seen guys like him and I shoulda warned you – but the _look_ on your face, the pride and _happiness _in your eyes – Gott, I hadn't seen you smile in so long. 'Germany will be strong again,' you said. 'The borders will be restored and we'll command the respect we once had.'_

He wasn't sure when he had picked Ludwig up and cradled him. All he was aware of were these thoughts that chased themselves around and around his head. Hot tears slid down the Prussian's thin cheeks as he buried his face in his brother's hair.

"I'm sorry! I'm so, so sorry, West!" he yelled over and over, but whatever sounds escaped his mouth were lost for the screaming of shells and thunder of tanks.

"Ah. What do we have here?" came an unpleasantly cold, sing-song voice.

Gilbert's eyes shot open at the sound. Cold metal connected with the back of his head. _That sonuvabitch._

"On your feet, Prussia."

Gilbert slowly stood and turned to face the only man he ever failed to defeat – the _only_ man, Gilbert was sure, that could actually kill him.

Russia repositioned the barrel of his Tokarev SVT-40 directly in front of Gilbert's heart.

"You _really _think that's going to work? Have you forgotten Königsberg4 that fast?" Gilbert sneered.

Russia simply smiled. "Königsberg? Ha! You left boys and old men to defend your capital."

"Yeah, but I'm still standing."

"I wouldn't count on it." A manic glint shone from violet eyes sending a shudder down Gilbert's back. "Put your hands behind your head and come quietly."

"What're you – oof!"

Russia rammed the butt of the rifle into Gilbert's abdomen with surprising speed, doubling him over.

"I _said_ 'quietly.'"

"_Verpiss dich! Ohrfeigengesicht!"__5_

The butt of the rifle cracked across the left side of Gilbert's face. The world exploded in black spots as his body twisted around and his head smacked against the stone window ledge. Prussia crumpled to the floor beside his brother, out cold.

* * *

><p>When he came to, he found himself in a blindingly white room. The smell of camphor and metal and something not quite sterile reached his nose. Gilbert discovered he could only open his right eye. An itchy gauze bandage obscured the other. He felt tightness around his chest and realized that, too, was wrapped in gauze.<p>

So, he had been brought to a hospital. At least his captors had the decency to see he was properly patched before executing his punishment. Gilbert smiled bitterly and pushed himself up in bed. He winced as small stabs of pain shot through his arms and torso. _I don't remember being in this bad a shape, _Gilbert thought as he leaned back against the pillows. A sudden movement off to his right made him jump slightly.

"Jesus, West! You tryin' to give me a heart attack?"

A small smile flickered across Ludwig's face. "I'm glad you're finally awake."

"Yeah, I am too." Gilbert hitched his usual cocky sneer across his face as he took in his brother's form. Ludwig's right arm rested in a sling and his face had some minor cuts and bruising. Black stitches ran along his brother's hairline, contrasting greatly with the blonde hair.

"They did a helluva job on you, _Bruder._ You're almost as good as new."

Gilbert's smile faltered as his eyes came to rest on Ludwig's chest, and he remembered when his own capital had burned then was sieged…. Gilbert's skin prickled at the thought.

"You wouldn't happen to have smoke, would ya?"

Ludwig's eyes flicked to the bedside table and Gilbert noticed the tobacco and matches sitting there.

"Gil, I – "

"_Ja, ja, _I know what you're going to say…" Gilbert began, reaching for the pack. A piercing pain tore through his shoulder blade and threatened to burst through his chest. It felt like a bullet. Then he remembered. It had been, in fact, several bullets tearing through his chest and back and shoulders as he hastened his brother away from the collapsing building. He hadn't noticed at the time. The adrenaline coursing through him numbed the pain.

Gilbert let his arm fall and eased himself back against the pillows. He wondered if West knew, _really knew,_ what happened in Berlin.

Ludwig fixed his brother with a slightly pitying look before sticking a cigarette in Gilbert's mouth and lighting it for him.

"_Bruder,_ you need to rest. The Allies have called a meeting6. It's going to be in Potsdam in July. They're going to decide what to do with us."

Gilbert snorted. What's the worst they could do? More war reparations? Giving back conquered territory? Awesome.

* * *

><p>As he was shown into the conference room, Gilbert wondered briefly if Ludwig had been handcuffed. He hadn't been allowed to see his brother since their arrival. They were kept in separate rooms and had to be escorted everywhere.<p>

Gilbert glanced around the conference table at the nations sitting there. England, with his thick brows creased in a scowl. America, wearing a brash smile and one arm draped over the back of his chair. Russia, hands clasped behind his head, leaning back in his chair, and humming an off-key song. France, head down, refusing to look at anyone. From the snatches of conversation he'd picked up in the corridors, Gilbert knew France had not had much say in the meetings and had been excluded completely from the agreement. They had been allies once - a scant two hundred years prior when an unentitled successor laid claim to the Habsburg throne and treaties could be reversed.7 Gilbert smiled grimly to himself. _Ah West, I guess I really did teach you well. _

"Well this _is _getting to be a familiar sight," Gilbert drawled.

"Yes. And we're here to make sure it _doesn't_ happen again!" England said.

Gilbert extracted a cigarette and lighter from his shirt pocket.

"Yeah, last time we had this little meeting, you took away many of my territories, my king abdicated, and I got slapped with the title of 'The Free State of Prussia.' Do you know how fucking stupid that sounds?"

The cigarette dangled precariously between Gilbert's lips as he tried to light it. _Stupid handcuffs._

"So, what's the plan chief? When do I get to see West?" Gilbert asked, finally lighting the tobacco and blowing a dismissive puff of smoke at the ceiling.

England huffed and shuffled through a stack of papers.

"You'll get to see your brother after this meeting's concluded. Now, this is what we've decided…."

Gilbert listened as the nations outlined the new borders of Germany, which industries were to remain and which ones had to be dismantled, the demilitarization of Germany, and blah blah blah. This kind of thing was West's forte. He should really be here. Details and bureaucrats were two things Gilbert couldn't stand. They made his head go all fuzzy trying to sift through an excess of words just to get some _relevant_ information.

A deafening silence, punctuated by low off-key humming, brought Gilbert out of his reverie.

"Prussia, did you understand me?" England asked.

"Which part?"

England looked slightly taken aback. France had finally lifted his head up and the look etched across it truly scared Gilbert. It wasn't one of dark hatred or anger, which Gilbert quite frankly would have preferred. He was used to those looks. No, France's face pale face twisted in a guise of fear. Thin lips pressed firmly together and drawn down and white nostrils flaring. America, on the other hand, remained uncharacteristically silent. Once or twice Gilbert saw his eyes flick towards Russia then dart back to Gilbert's, the smug smile getting wider each time.

England glanced around the room and shifted forward in his seat in an effort to recompose himself.

"Th-the part about the division and occupation of Germany."

"The what?"

England cleared his throat. "We're dividing Germany between the Four Powers. The west will be controlled by myself, America, and France while the

east –"

"Oh stop mincing words, _l'Angleterre!__8_ Tell him the true meaning," France spat.

England cast him a sidelong glance before picking up where he left off. "The east will go to Russia."

"_Mon Dieu! Une petite honnêteté, s'il vous plait!__9_They want to dissolve you!"

1Site of the infamous book burnings in Berlin. Part of Unter den Linden, near the Reichstag

2 German: the damned Russians

3 The first Catholic church in Prussia built by the permission of Old Fritz. It burned out completely during the air raids on Berlin in 1943.

4 The capital of Prussia. It was bombed by the RAF in 1944 then sieged by the Soviets starting in January 1945. Motivated by the Red Army's brutality towards civilians in East Prussia (plus Nazi propaganda), German soldiers continued fighting even though they believed the war to be lost.

5 German: Piss off. Your face begs to be punched.

6 Referring to the Potsdam Conference and the Allied Control Council (I took a _lot_ of liberty here, people. Hey it's called fiction for a reason.)

7 Refers to the war of Austrian Succession. Gilbert's comparing it to Hitler's rise to power.

8 French: England

9 French: My God! A little honesty please!


	2. Chapter 2

What little color remained in Gilbert's face drained.

"Di-dissolved?"

"We haven't officially agreed upon it yet," England spat, glaring at France. "Until we _do_, you'll be staying with Russia."

Gilbert felt the ground beneath him falling away. Black dots obscured his periphery as his throat constricted.

"W-why?" he heard himself choke out.

"You're just a glorified military, wreaking havoc wherever you go," America said. "You need to be controlled, and we feel your brother would be a poor choice of baby-sitter. So we're splitting you up. We – that is to say England, France, and myself – will be keeping an eye on him. I mean, let's face it, you're a bad influence on Ludwig."

The world, along with a desperate desire to stab something, suddenly came rushing back to Gilbert. Grabbing England's pen, he rammed it down into the polished mahogany.

"This is fucking bullshit!"

The pen nib sheered off, spraying black ink everywhere. The escort guards hooked him under his arms and dragged him away from the table.

"Bullshit!" Gilbert elbowed one guard in the gut and managed to wrench himself free from the other's grasp.

"I wanna see West! He wouldn't stand for this!"

"I'm afraid that wouldn't be pru – " England said.

"I don't care what you think! Let me see him."

A cry, like that of a wounded animal, ripped from Gilbert's throat as he fought off more attempts to restrain him.

"Please," he said, approaching the table. "Please." Tears welled in swollen red eyes. The intensity of his gaze, and the desperation behind it, held England transfixed. The green-eyed nation remembered having that same look on his own face all those years ago when that bratty upstart he called "little brother" wanted independence.

"You send me away with this nut job and I'll never see West again. You _know_ this. Let me at least see him one more time."

England turned his head away, as if such a look might be indecent. "Bring him."

"I'm afraid I can't allow this, England," came a falsely cheery voice. "I've got a tight schedule to keep."

Gilbert glared at Russia.

"Give them five minutes," England said.

"Very well. Five minutes. They shall say their goodbyes and then we really must be going."

Each word sounded like a threat. It took all of what little self-restraint Gilbert possessed from throttling that damn Russian. He started pacing instead, lighting another cigarette.

The guard returned a few moments later with Ludwig. Even in defeat, the German could not be cowed. His back rigid and straight, head level, and eyes betraying nothing as he entered the room.

Gilbert's face cracked into its usual cocky grin when he saw Ludwig. The world around them melted away. No desks. No papers. No eyes watching their every move. Just him and West. Like it used to be. But something felt different. Their roles reversed and Gilbert felt like the younger brother asking for help now. And he couldn't help but notice and wonder why Ludwig's hands weren't bound like his. Gilbert forced these thoughts out of his mind as he ran over to Ludwig.

"West! Do you know what these fu- "

"Yes, Gilbert, I know."

"Isn't there anything we can do?"

Ludwig considered his brother for a moment. He knew what Gilbert wanted him to say – knew what Gilbert would have done – but he also knew what _must_ be done. Swallowing the tightness in his throat, Ludwig shook his head.

"The price…is steep this time…and it must be paid for what we did."

_What _we _did? We? We! It was never We. It was you, you, you…you and your stupid boss. _Gilbert shut his eyes, trying to clear his thoughts…but the image of him in that building, yelling at his brother just before an explosion took out the north wall, floated back into his mind. 

"It will be temporary," said a distant voice, bringing Gilbert back to the present. He opened his eyes to see his brother placing a tentative hand on his shoulder. Gilbert stared back into his brother's icy blue eyes and tried to smile, but Ludwig's gaze was too staid. Then, with a sudden stiff motion, Ludwig pulled his brother into a bone-crushing hug.

"You will come back to me. I'll make sure of it," Ludwig whispered.

Gilbert nestled his face in the crook of his brother's shoulder. "I know, West." _But why does it seem like I get the short end of the deal?_

In the background, someone cleared his throat.

"Time's up," America said with a voice more strained than it had been earlier.

The brothers parted and the world rushed back in. The escort guard came up beside Ludwig and led him from the room. Gilbert watched his brother's face turn for one more look before the door snapped shut and for once, the blonde nation's eyes betrayed his sorrow.

Gilbert turned away from the door to find Russia standing next to him. Violet eyes glinted greedily.

"All right, Gilbert, let's go."

"My _name _is Prussia!"

"Whatever you say, _Gilbert_. Now let's go. Lithuania's waiting at the train station with my luggage."

"What about my stuff?"

"Gilbert, my house is a big one. Don't think I don't provide for those that live there. I'll take care of you."

The last part sent shudders down Gilbert's spine as he reached for another cigarette.

"When do I get these damn handcuffs off?"

When we get to my house. They're merely...ah…a precaution."

Lithuania was sitting just inside the terminal, looking more harassed than usual. He immediately jumped up at Russia's arrival and launched into his stream of forced pleasantries, but the massive nation waved him off.

"When will our train arrive?"

"I-in about fifteen minutes, Mr. Russia."

"Good."

"W-would you li – " Lithuania trailed off, noticing Gilbert for the first time. "What's _he_ doing here?"

Russia's mouth broke into his wide grin. "My war prize. Gilbert's our new family member."

Gilbert ground his teeth at this remark. "For the last time, it's _Prussia!"_

Russia smirked and clapped a hand hard across Gilbert's back. "Of course. Now, I would like a coffee…or perhaps something stronger – "

"Certainly, Mr. Russia. I'll be ba – "

"No, no, Lithuania. I am quite capable. I want you to wait here with our new kin."

Even though he smiled as he said it, Lithuania did not miss the malevolent flash in Russia's eyes.

"You know, I don't remember you being _this _much of a sniveling idiot," Gilbert said as he and Lithuania watched Russia walk away.

The Baltic nation's face reddened. "_You're_ still as presumptuous as ever."

"No. I'm just awesome. So when did you become Russia's bitch? I mean, don't get me wrong, you're a smart guy. Hell, I'll never forget Tannenberg. So what happened?"

A shadow passed over Lithuania's face as his eyes followed the path Russia took. "He…has his ways."

_**A/N: **__OK. So I'm still a total fanfic virgin. I noticed on my first chapter, I forgot to post the obligatory disclaimer. So here it is: I don't own it. I wish I did, but I don't. End of story. Also, I didn't think it was necessary to make a footnote for the Tannenberg reference…if you don't know, read the comic or google it. Love me or hate me, feel free to review. Thanks guys!_


	3. Chapter 3

_**A/N:**__ Warning! This is a sorta dark/angsty chapter featuring an incredibly psychotic Russia. I'm sorry Lithuania! I still love you!_

Russia's house, like the nation himself, was enormous. _I could live here and not see his ugly face ever, _Gilbert thought. _This might not be so bad._

Russia led Gilbert up to the second floor, followed closely by Lithuania, to a room at the far end of the hall. Gilbert couldn't help but notice the padlock on the outside of the door.

"This is your room Gilbert. I hope you like it."

"It's fucking pink!"

The room reminded Gilbert of chewed bubblegum: bright pink and dull at the same time. The color screamed at him from every angle: walls, bed sheets, curtains, even the rug on the floor.

"Yes. It was Poland's idea. Lietuva, will you go and start dinner? I would like a word with Gilbert."

Lithuania nodded and hurried from the room. Russia shut the door and produced a key from his overcoat, unlocking the cuffs on Gilbert's wrists. The white-haired nation rubbed at the weals that had formed and was in the process of taking in the bits of the room that weren't pink when Russia picked him up by the throat and slammed him against the wall.

"What…the…fuck!" Gilbert choked.

"I _own_ you now, Gilbert Beilschmidt. Having you under my control is not the only retribution I seek. No. You must pay for what you did to my people. Blood for blood."

The massive nation let Gilbert crumple to the floor, gasping for air, before smashing his wide boot into Gilbert's face.

Downstairs in the kitchen, Lithuania and Estonia could hear the cries.

"What's going on?" Latvia asked upon entering.

Lithuania pressed his lips together and shook his head.

The beatings continued on a daily basis. When Russia went to Council meetings, the large nation made up for his absence by leaving Gilbert with some of the more spectacular marks. By the end of the year, Gilbert's body resembled a road map of bruises and scars. Lithuania brought him food twice a day but was forbidden to speak to him. The other two Baltic nations did not go near the room at the end of the hall. The sounds they heard coming from the room when Russia _wasn't_ home, were worse, they thought, than the ones they heard when the violet-eyed nation visited his newest captive.

Anger, that killing thing, found its way into Gilbert's chest, granting him no rest or release from its appetite. Over the months and months of captivity, the Anger grew, proving more voracious when Russia wasn't around to keep it in check. Gilbert shouted curses, growling like a cur day and night. When that could no longer satisfy the hunger, he contented himself with kicking the footboard until it finally broke from the bed frame one day. His anger abated for perhaps a few hours. When it returned, he assuaged it by throwing the wooden desk chair against the wall repeatedly until it splintered. He tore the curtains from the windows and watched as chunks of pink fell to the floor along with the clanging curtain rod. Gilbert's mouth twisted into a smile when he saw the pink ripped from the wall. The pink must be dealt with. It must be removed. And, oh yes, force _would_ be necessary. Gilbert laughed and punched the pink until his fist left bloody smears across the blushing wall.

"This will earn you extra lashes," Russia said when he returned home and saw the plaster and wood littering the floor.

"What's a few more bruises between friends?" Gilbert grinned manically.

After he was done, Russia ordered Gilbert to clean up the room.

When Lithuania brought him his dinner, he was surprised to see Gilbert sitting composedly on the bed. He had the air of a mad general, surveying the wreckage of his room.

"Lietuva, bring me some smokes would ya?"

"I'm not supposed to talk to you," the other said in a hurried whisper.

"You're not, and I'm _ordering_ you."

"I don't think that would be wise," the other muttered.

Lithuania placed the food tray on the edge of the bed. Gilbert eyed it, a wicked grin spreading across his face. He kicked his foot out, upsetting the tray and dumping the food on top of the mess already on the floor.

"I said: Bring. Me. A. Damn. Cigarette."

Lithuania's eyes narrowed. He extracted a crumpled half pack from his jacket and threw it at Gilbert, hitting him between the eyes.

An astounded look flickered across Gilbert's face but dispelled the minute he clamped his lips around the cigarette.

"Looks like I was wrong about you Liet. You _do_ still have some fight left."

Lithuania muttered something about not being completely broken and turned to leave. At the door, he paused and faced Gilbert once more.

"You know, it would be a lot easier if you just do what he says. I may be a house pet but I learned _that_ early on. It's why I still survive."

Gilbert blew a dismissive puff of smoke at the ceiling as Lithuania slammed the door.

"I thought I asked you to clean this up," Russia said later that night.

"You did, but I rather like it. It detracts from the _pink._"

Gilbert was still sitting on the bed, chain smoking the pack Lithuania had thrown at him.

"Where did you get that tobacco?"

"What? This cheap Soviet shit? I found it."

A hand struck him hard across the face.

"You greatly disappoint me, Gilbert. I bring you into my home - give you protection – yet you show such disrespect."

"Disrespect? Disrespect!" Gilbert howled. "You've beaten me and kept me _locked_ in here for I don't know how long! What the hell do you want me to do? Lie down and lick your boots like Lithuania? Well, go ahead and hit me some more because I refuse to bow to you!"

Russia's empty violet eyes studied him and Gilbert readied himself for the blows. None came. Instead, Russia's mouth broke into a grin.

"No. No, hitting you will not work. You _are_ a challenge, Gilbert. But I think I know how to win."

"For the last time, my name is _Prussia_ goddammit!" Gilbert shouted as Russia strode from the room.

When the door didn't fly open again, Gilbert sank onto the edge of his bed, resting his elbows on his knees. _What new trick is this?_ He pulled out another cigarette and lit it just as the door banged open.

Russia flung Lithuania into the room. The Baltic nation landed on hands and knees amid the discarded food and chair pieces. Gilbert jumped up.

"Jesus Christ!"

Lithuania glanced up at him before Russia twisted his hands in hair, yanking the Baltic nation up.

"Gilbert, I think I've figured you out. Pain inflicted on _you_ seems to have no effect other than making you more stubborn. So now we'll see what happens when you witness, firsthand, pain in others."

And with that, Russia picked up one of the broken chair legs and began beating Lithuania.

"You see," Russia said above the Baltic nation's cries, "my little Lietuva _needs_ to be punished. He disobeyed a direct order by speaking to you…"

"That's only because _I_ spoke to _him_ first! Stop this!"

"Ah, but you're a military man, Gilbert. You know what happens when a subordinate disobeys an order. And I know he gave you those cigarettes even though he knows how much I detest them. I recognized the smell of the smoke. I've smelled it on him before, the sneak!"

"Stop it! Stop it! Stop! It's _my_ fault! Please!" Gilbert cried. He rushed forward, trying to wrest the club from Russia's grasp, but the larger nation simply flung him to the side like a used napkin. A strange brightness shone from Russia's eyes as he continued raining blows on the helpless Lithuania. That look, more than any other Gilbert had seen since living here, haunted him the most. Russia's eyes were alive and open and drinking in everything they were seeing. Beyond greed, beyond mania, _that_ look was one of absolute power. Power fed by fear. Lithuania's cries and Gilbert's supplications fed Russia's addiction. Gilbert clenched his jaw and prayed Lithuania would go quiet soon. _It's the only way he'll stop._

Russia finally stopped when Lithuania quit moving. The only sounds coming from the Baltic nation were that of his low, ragged breathing. Lithuania lay crumpled on the floor, shirt torn to rags, back and face bruised and bleeding. But the thing that struck Gilbert the most were his eyes. They were barely open but possessed such a damning stare. Gilbert sank to his knees, reaching for Lithuania's hand – a gesture meant to show his contrition – but Russia was already scooping the broken nation up. Lithuania yelped in pain. An icy fist clenched in Gilbert's gut as he watched the Russian leave with the battered heap that was the docile Baltic nation.

Gilbert stood and began picking up the wood and plaster and food bits. He searched for anything – _anything_ – to distract him from what he just witnessed. Oh how he longed for details and all their pleasant, brain-numbing sensations now! But the only details the broken chair revealed were faded lacquer and straight wood grain and blood and…._A trash bin! I need a trash bin. How am I supposed to clear this rubble without a trash bin? _Gilbert raked the room for something he could use. Pink. Pink. Pink! PINK! _Why is everything pink? Damn you, Poland!_

Gilbert's eyes fell on a gaping hole in the pink. And it was one _he _hadn't created. Russia had left the door open.

Gilbert felt quite certain Russia did _not_ forget. This was part of some new scheme. But Gilbert _needed_ a trash bin. A clean room _is_ important right? And there's no way Russia could blame this on Liet.

Gilbert poked his head out into the hall. No one. Placing a tentative foot outside, Gilbert padded swiftly down the hall, halting at the stairs. He strained his ears, listening for any sound. Ringing silence greeted him. Gilbert made his way downstairs.

At the bottom of the staircase, it occurred to him he had no idea where a trash bin might be, having never been allowed out of his room. His eyes swept up and down the first floor hallway, looking for a sign that he was hopefully near the kitchen. All the doors looked the same and Gilbert couldn't help but think how easy it would be to get lost in Russia's house.

Gilbert decided he would go to the right. All of the doors were shut except one. It led to another hall that looked exactly like the first. Gilbert knew this design was intentional and cursed the Russian under his breath as he continued down it.

"All I ask for is a dutiful family. But you shirk me at every turn."

Gilbert froze, fully expecting to feel a heavy hand on his shoulder. His heart pounded a relentless tattoo between his ears. Seconds crawled by. _He can't be there. I would have heard him. I know it. Those massive boots can't sneak up on anybody. _Gilbert slowly turned his head. Doors, doors, and more doors. _Gott sei Dank!_ Gilbert doubled over, letting out a huge breath of air.

After his heart stopped racing, Gilbert picked himself up and continued down the hall. He may as well finish his quest, having come this far. A faint pale glow caught his attention. At the far end of the hallway, a door stood half ajar. Gilbert couldn't shake the feeling that he was somehow _meant_ to find it. Sheer recklessness drove him towards it.

"You know I love you. And it's for your own good, Lietuva."

Through the crack, Gilbert saw Lithuania sitting shirtless on the edge of a bathroom counter. He faced away from the door while Russia administered to his wounds. Lithuania trembled at Russia's touch. Even though he could not see his face, Gilbert knew Lithuania was crying silently.

"I thought I made myself quite clear when I brought you back from America's house. I only want to take care of you."

Lithuania's back stiffened and he hiccupped something unintelligible.

"Here, Lietuva, drink some tea. It will calm your nerves."

"Th-thank y-you, Mr. Russia."

A shaking hand took the cup Russia offered. Lithuania drained it in one gulp and set it back on the counter. But he misjudged the distance to the edge and the teacup fell, shattering on the marble floor.

"I-I'm s-so sorry, M-Mr. Russia! I'll – "

"That's all right, my little Lietuva! I have plenty more. Besides, Gilbert will clean it up, won't you Gilbert?"

Gilbert's face blanched as the door swung open. He quickly steeled himself, expecting to get hit any moment. What he didn't expect, however, was to see Russia smiling at him from the door frame. Smiling. Gilbert's eyes blinked in rapid succession. No, he wasn't seeing things. Russia was _actually_ smiling.

"How…how….?"

"This _is_ my house, Gilbert. I know everything that goes on here. Now, what do you need?"

"I w-was looking….I-I just need a trash bin."

"Ah. Lietuva can help you with that. I must be going to bed. Tomorrow will be an early day for me. Goodnight, Gilbert."

Russia brushed by Gilbert on his way out, nearly knocking the red-eyed nation over. A choking silence settled over the bathroom after Russia left. Lithuania slid off the counter and reached behind the door for a clean shirt, wincing slightly as he pulled it on. It did not go unnoticed by Gilbert. He wasn't sure if he should say anything or if there was anything he _could_ say. Instead, Gilbert busied himself with picking up the broken bits of teacup.

"There's a bin in the kitchen you can use," Lithuania said, his tone uncharacteristically blank.

"Right. How do – "

"Follow me."

Lithuania led Gilbert back out to the main hall. They walked past the staircase to a door halfway down the hall on the right. Gilbert silently cursed himself for choosing to go right instead of left.

Once in the kitchen, Lithuania took out the discarded food bin from under the sink and thrust it at Gilbert.

"Empty it once you're done. The big metal cans are outside. Just go out that way," Lithuania said, pointing directly behind Gilbert.

"Listen, Liet, I – "

"I _really_ don't want to talk to you at the moment."

Gilbert mouthed wordlessly for a few seconds, staring at the other nation. One of Lithuania's eyes had swollen completely shut. The other had a deadened look behind it.

Lithuania pushed past Gilbert, making his way back to his room. Gilbert stood there for a few more minutes before turning and following suit.

The next morning, Gilbert woke to find his door open and a food tray sitting on his desk with a note from Russia.

_Gilbert, since you slept through breakfast, I had Lithuania bring you some food up. Please feel free to join us for lunch this afternoon. Welcome to the family._

_ ~Russia_

Under the note there were two packs of cigarettes. _What the hell is going on here?_

**A/N (2)**_ I got the idea for the pink bedroom from two places – 1) Hetalia episode 47 when Poland talks about painting his house pink and 2) from my former home state of North Carolina when Sheriff Hege painted the jail in Davidson County pink. The bubblegum shade, also called "drunk tank" pink, is supposed to have a calming effect on prisoners. I've differing opinions on this theory…some say it actually increases violent behavior while others state a person can't become aggressive in the presence of pink. I decided to use the former for my story b/c I don't know about you guys, but I think I would go crazy too if I were kept in a pink room. _

_Council meeting – Allied Control Council_

_Anger, that killing thing – taken from a quote by Louis L'Amour "Anger is a killing thing: it kills the man who angers, for ach rage leaves him less than he had been before – it takes something from him."_

_The bit about Russia bringing Liet back from America's house was inspired by the "Lithuania's Outsourcing" series. _

_And the German translates to "Thank God!" _

_As always, I don't own it and reviews are always welcome. Thanks for reading!_


	4. Chapter 4

Gilbert pocketed the cigarettes and brought the tray over to his bed. It seemed Russia spared no expense with this meal: blini, smoked ham, eggs, and coffee. Better than the kasha he usually got if Russia was feeling generous. Still not trusting Russia's sudden show of hospitality, Gilbert speared a slice of ham and bit off a tiny piece, letting it sit on his tongue for a moment. It had gone cold but didn't have a sour taste. Gilbert swallowed and ate a larger piece. He smiled wryly, comforting himself with the thought that if it were poisoned, he'd at least die with a good meal in his stomach.

After bolting down his breakfast, Gilbert poured himself a cup of cold coffee. He fingered the rim of the cup absently for a minute, his mind lost in thought. He didn't know what to make of his new "freedom" and decided to play Russia's game. He would go downstairs at lunch and play the well-mannered houseguest. It would give Russia what he wanted and Gilbert a chance to ferret out the large nation's motive. He drained the mug and poured another. The bitter taste numbed him a little. If only it were beer….

"Ah, Gilbert! Good to see you join us," Russia said as Gilbert entered the kitchen.

A startled Latvia choked on his soup, dissolving into a coughing fit. Estonia thumped him on the back. The bespectacled nation had enough presence of mind not to be as obvious. Still, Gilbert noticed his eyes lingering past the point of comfortable. Lithuania, on the other hand, didn't acknowledge Gilbert other than to ladle him out some soup.

"You're in for a treat today, Gilbert. Lietuva's making pelmeni. His dumplings are the best."

Other than this small acknowledgement on Lithuania's behalf, Russia completely ignored the three Baltics in his effort to make light (forced) conversation. Everything was directed at Gilbert. "How do you like our weather, Gilbert?" "It's a bit too grey outside, Gilbert. I wish the sun would shine." "Have you ever been to Italy's house, Gilbert? Is it warm there?" "Do you like swimming, Gilbert?" And on and on and on. Gilbert Gilbert Gilbert. The white-haired nation merely nodded or shook his head, doing his best to keep his mouth busy with the soup. Gilbert knew Russia wanted him to snap, to scream, "My name is Prussia!" And it took all of his willpower to hold it in. Only West and Old Fritz could call him Gilbert. He was a nation and deserved to be addressed as such.

Russia's endless barrage finally halted as Lithuania served lunch. After everyone had eaten, Lithuania cleared away the plates and the other two Baltic nations found any excuse to leave the table as quickly as possible.

"That was delicious, Lietuva. Did you like it, Gilbert?"

The white-haired nation flinched. Clenching his jaw, he answered: "Yes."

Russia's fake smile stretched across is lips. The large nation reached out and ruffled Gilbert's hair, making the other recoil slightly.

"You know, Gilbert, you should really let me cut your hair. It's grown so matted and shaggy these past few months."

Lithuania cast Gilbert a sidelong look before snapping his eyes back to the dishes.

"Maybe," Gilbert said after a pause.

The Prussian reached his own hand up, touching his hair. He hadn't realized it until now, but he wasn't sure what he really _looked_ like any more. Sure he knew certain _pieces_ - what color his eyes and hair were and how he was so skinny he could count his own ribs - but he couldn't fit the pieces together in his mind's eye to form the whole. Gilbert remembered what he once looked like in his old uniform, but he knew _that_ man was not the same as this one. Would West even recognize him?

Russia's eyes glinted strangely as he watched the smaller nation. The look did not go unnoticed by Gilbert and he quickly dropped his hand. It hit the pack of cigarettes in his pants pocket. Russia was playing at something and Gilbert decided he would play too. Gilbert stood up abruptly and headed for the front door.

"Where are you going, Gilbert?"

"Just stepping out for a bit. I like having a smoke after meals." Gilbert's face twisted into its old cocky grin.

"But you'll freeze out there, Gilbert. You can smoke in the house as long as you keep it to your room. Understand, Gilbert?"

Lithuania's face darkened. With Russia's back to him, he stopped pretending to do the dishes.

"Of course," Gilbert said, keeping Russia's gaze locked and Lithuania in his periphery. "But I thought you didn't like it. And speaking of rooms, I really think mine is overdue for a paint job. A nice _dark blue _would be a welcome change."

Russia's mouth smiled while his eyes screamed hatred. Two bone-crushing hands wound themselves around the napkin in his lap.

_I'll bet you wish that was my throat, _Gilbert smiled to himself as he turned to head upstairs.

"Your clothes are rags, Gilbert. We really must get you some proper attire if you're to _survive_ here. The winters can be particularly cruel. Don't you agree, Lietuva?"

But before Lithuania could answer, Gilbert was already half way to his room.

_That fucker is planning something. _Gilbert flopped on his bed, striking a match to life. _And Lithuania is the key._

Russia was gone the rest of the week. Off to more council meetings at Germany's house – a point the large nation made sure to stress whenever Gilbert was in earshot. The white haired nation pretended not to care. Gilbert knew West was as much a prisoner in his own house as he was in Russia's. Still, Gilbert couldn't help but feel a twinge of envy. Russia was there, he could tell Gilbert how West was doing, but both pride and common sense prohibited him from ever asking.

Gilbert distracted himself by devising ways of cornering Lithuania and finding out just how much he knew. The Baltic nation seemed to have anticipated this. Lithuania knew Russia's house inside out and backwards, making it difficult for Gilbert to track him down. As soon as Gilbert would see the quiet nation slip down a corridor, Lithuania practically vanished behind one of the endless identical doors by the time the Prussian could catch up.

Gilbert decided to try the other two nations. Latvia fairly avoided being anywhere near the former Teutonic Knight, and Estonia camped out in Russia's library.

The library took over at least a quarter of the eastern wing of the house, occupying two levels with a sweeping double staircase leading up to the mezzanine. Any available space had been crammed with books. Gilbert's eyes swept over the magnificent place and knew calling it a "room" would hardly do it justice. Unlike the bland utilitarianism pervasive throughout the rest of the house, Russia had left the graceful rococo architecture in the library. Intricately woven Russian folk art rugs, with patterns mimicking the floral scrolls on the walls, covered the golden wood floor. The heavy wool curtains had been drawn back, letting in shafts of pale winter light, but somehow in this space the light didn't seem as cold.

Estonia lounged in a leather wingback near a slowly dying fire. Keeping the Baltic nation in his sight lines, Gilbert lingered a bit and scanned the bookshelves. Most, of course, were dedicated to contemporary Russian literature and philosophy; but scattered here and there were works from the Enlightenment, notably Voltaire and – Gilbert's stomach clenched – Kant. He pulled a volume from the shelf and idly flipped through it before replacing it and doing the same with another book. Gilbert's feigned perusal did not fool Estonia. The Baltic nation's eyes, still appearing expertly fixed on his book, carefully traced Gilbert's movements as the white haired nation made his way closer to the seated Estonia.

"How long do you plan to lurk before speaking to me?" the spectacled nation asked.

Gilbert was reminded briefly of another nation he once lived with; but Estonia's demeanor and tone held none of the pomposity of Austria.

"What are you reading?"

Estonia shifted the book so Gilbert could see the cover. Crime and Punishment.

"_'Actions are sometimes performed in a masterly and most cunning way, while the direction of the actions is deranged and dependent on various morbid impressions – it's like a dream.' Perhaps it's a good thing really that he should think me almost a madman, thought Raskolnikov._" Estonia read."People say fiction is false and shouldn't be trusted. But I think it's the ultimate truth. Good fiction is like a mirror. Do you know what I mean?"

Gilbert was all too aware of the blank look spreading across his face. Estonia sighed and placed the book on the coffee table. He indicated for Gilbert to sit in the neighboring wingback. Estonia studied Gilbert over the rims of his glasses, his eyes serious but not unkind.

"It is best to know your enemy thoroughly," Estonia said at length. "But I'm sure I don't need to tell you that."

Gilbert nodded slowly. He felt a small glimmer of understanding forming, but for the most part he had no idea what the Baltic nation was getting at. Estonia was just as closed off as the rest of them. Gilbert sensed Estonia was waiting for more of a response. He shifted uncomfortably in is seat, looking around the room.

"Do you spend all of your time here?"

Estonia pushed his glasses up his nose. The lenses reflected the dying fire, obscuring his eyes for a moment.

"I may be allowed certain freedoms, but I am still a prisoner as much as you. You wanted to ask me something. I can read it in your face."

"I'm just trying to figure out _why?_"

"Why he let you out? Why the sudden interest?" The corners of Estonia's mouth twitched up in a pitiful smirk. "I would have thought that'd been obvious. You're his new plaything."

"What does that mean?"

"He's pushed us all to the edge and brought us back to the fold only to push us to the brink again. But you're new blood. You're curious to him – like a new lab specimen. And Russia likes to experiment."

Gilbert's face went ashen as Estonia leaned in close. "Just because he's let you out, don't think for a second he won't shut you back in that room. _Never_ let your guard down."

Gilbert ran his hands through his unkempt hair and stared at the glowing embers. An idea struck him.

"I could run."

Estonia laughed. "I don't think that would be wise. One war just ended…you don't want to start another do you?"

"If it meant getting outta here…."

"Your brother already underestimated the might of Russia. I suggest you learn from that mistake and _don't_ do it again," Estonia said, picking up his book.

Gilbert slumped back in his chair, arms crossed. "You've grown complacent," he mumbled.

"I have _not_ grown complacent. I've grown wiser. Sometimes a silent rebellion is better than all out war."

"But he's planning something!" Gilbert propelled himself forward in the chair. "I just know it! I just don't know _what_ or how to stop it."

"Then your best course of action would be observation. He doesn't tell _us_ anything."

"What about Lithuania?"

"You could try asking Toris. He certainly knows Ivan the best," Estonia shrugged. "But Russia's business is Russia's business. Haven't you noticed, all the doors in his house are locked?"

As Gilbert left the library, he replayed the conversation he'd had with Estonia over and over in his head. Some parts just didn't make any sense and others only confirmed what he'd feared all along. There was no way out.

Gilbert wandered the halls lost in thought. He remembered what Estonia said about the doors being locked and paused in front of one. Gilbert placed a tentative hand on the shiny knob, almost as if he expected the metal to burn him. He clenched his teeth and shook his head. _Stop being stupid._ He twisted the handle. Nothing. No snap of the latch or gentle release of air. Gilbert leaned on the door, but it refused to budge. He tried the next one and the one after that and the one after that. All the way down the hall. Nothing. In anger he pounded his fist on the very last door and was surprised to see it swing open, hitting the wall with a reverberating bang.

A terrified Lithuania bolted up out of bed.

"Y-yes, Mr. Rus – oh, it's you. What do you want?"

"I – I'm – uh…Estonia told me…doors locked…so…" Gilbert stammered. He ran a hand through disheveled hair again as he stared at the Baltic nation. And for once he _saw_ – really saw – the fear and tenderness and eagerness to please wrapped in the thin, trembling frame. And Gilbert knew he had been a party to this nation's suffering through his spite and the guilt gnawed his gut even more.

"Aww fuck it….Look, Liet, I never meant to get you hurt. I know I'm an ass and…well…sorry."

Lithuania eyed him. It was the first and only apology he would get from the former knight and proud Prussian, but spoke volumes. Lithuania knew Gilbert was only apologizing for the food tray incident, but somehow, just hearing that arrogant nation utter the word "sorry" erased past animosities. Lithuania's heart felt somewhat lightened.

Gilbert entered the room and slumped on the bed. "It's just…I don't understand_ how_ you can put up with that guy. How can you stand it?"

Lithuania drew himself up, tucking his knees under his chin. "He wasn't always like this," the Baltic nation whispered. "You have to understand, Russia's had a frightful past. And he managed to cope with it for centuries until he s-snapped.

I-I s-saw it happen. All the madness – " Tears welled in Lithuania's eyes. He squeezed them shut.

"You don't have to tell me…" Gilbert said.

"No! I-I _n-need_ to!" Lithuania's eyes flew open. Two wide bright emeralds staring back. "Someone's got to understand. I've carried it t-too long."

Lithuania took a deep breath before continuing. "Imagine finding a boy, clothed in rags in the middle of winter. He's poor, obviously, neglected, but he's so full of pride he refuses the help you offer. Over he years, you see him grow up strong despite circumstances…see the horrors he's endured…watch th-the gradual madness take over. And he comes to your for help while he's still lucid enough to ask for it. But poverty has struck your land and you've become frightened of this boy you once called 'friend.' What do you do? Help the boy and pray he doesn't drag you down further with him or flee to save your people?"

Gilbert stared back, unsure of what to say.

"Don't you see? I abandoned him! I went to live with America, to save my own skin and I…I…"

"You can't blame yourself, Liet," the white haired nation whispered.

"I know! But every time I see him now, I see that lost boy and it keeps me here…keeps me with him." Lithuania buried his face in his hands. "Do you know what it's like, to feel _such_ loyalty to someone even though you know you're just going to get hurt? But you f-feel compelled to stay because you know if you leave, things would b-be much worse?"

A shadow passed over Gilbert's face.

"_What are they for, West?" "What are what for?" A hand struck the blonde nation. "Don't play dumb with me! The camps!" Germany's eyes lowered. "Christ! Ol' Fritz is probably rolling over in his grave." "Don't talk to me about him! My boss – " "Your _boss_!" Gilbert scoffed. "Your boss isn't even _German!_ Why the fuck do you listen to him?_

"_You bring me an' Austria into this thing and now your boss wants to abolish me? I thought we were brothers!"_

"Ja. Ich weiss was…ich weiss was." Gilbert muttered.

"I'm s-sorry," Lithuania sputtered. "I d-didn't mean to dump all that on you. I-I know you must miss him."

The white haired seemed to be contemplating the floor. "I just thought he would have tried to come for me by now."

Lithuania moved closer, placing a cautious hand on Gilbert's shoulder. "Gilbert, healing from this war is going to take some time. I-I know we've never seen exactly eye to eye, but I – that is, the three of us – c-could be your family now. At least for the time being."

Gilbert smiled in spite of himself. Lithuania had used his name and for once, he didn't flinch. That moment, Gilbert made a silent promise to himself to never give Russia an excuse to harm his newly adopted brothers again.

"You really could use a bath, you know," Lithuania said after a few minutes.

"Yeah," Gilbert grinned. "I guess that pitcher and wash bowl just don't cut it."

"Come on, I'll show you where the towels are."

Gilbert nodded and followed Lithuania out of the room. A sudden, burning desire struck him. Lithuania knew Russia's house the best. Maybe _he_ knew how to get into the locked rooms – or at least what Russia kept in there. But the promise Gilbert had made kept him from asking. He didn't want to compromise the nation any more that he'd done already. Besides, he used to be excellent at picking locks.

_**A/N **__As always,____I don't own Hetalia. I apologize for this chapter…it felt kind of rushed/forced, but it was killing me not to get it out!. I think the library scene is my favorite thus far! Thanks for reading and feel free to review._

_Crime and Punishment__ – written by Fyodor Dostoyevsky after his return from exile in a Tsarist forced labor camp. Major themes include questions of madness, sanity, existence, and suffering (a condition to escape from or proof of someone's goodness). Throughout the book, Dostoyevsky argued Western ideas were incompatible with and dangerous to Russian society._

_Ich weiss was – I have an idea_

_I'm sure there's more, but I'm too tired to ferret it out right now. Just send me a message ˆ-ˆ_


	5. Chapter 5

_**February 1947**_

Gilbert sat in the library, irritably flicking through Stalin's Marxism and the National Question, arm in a sling, and a grim look etched across his face. The sling had been a gift from Russia. Two weeks after the New Year, the massive nation finally caught Gilbert poking about in one of his many locked rooms.

_"What are you doing in here, Gilbert?"_

_"I…got lost. Your house is so massive and maze-like."_

_"Now, now Gilbert, you shouldn't _lie_ to me. If you were so interested, you could have just _talked_ to me….Hmm. I think some _re-education_ is in order, _da?_ Oh, by the way, you picked a bad door. 1603 was not my best year."_

By "re-education" Russia meant a sound beating. He had broken Gilbert's arm, cracked a few ribs, and left the other nation's skin so bruised barely an inch of pale flesh was visible. In addition to that, Russia gathered up all of the Communist literature in his library, dumped the volumes on Gilbert's bed, and ordered him to study every last one. Russia drilled Gilbert daily and, as Gilbert quickly discovered, if he missed any questions a beating would be his reward.

Gilbert shivered. The rapidly dying fire did little to improve his mood. He flicked another page with so much force it tore in half. Estonia, sitting as always in his worn leather wingback, with cup of tea in one hand and book in the other, looked up. Gilbert mumbled something that sounded like "Sorry."

"It's all right," the Baltic nation said.

Gilbert breathed on his fingertips and hunched closer on himself, trying to get warm.

"I'm afraid there's not much wood left."

"I could toss this shit in there," Gilbert muttered, pointing to his book. "It's certainly _dry_ enough to catch flame."

Estonia's mouth twitched into a half grin as he pushed his glasses up his nose. "I think that was the wittiest thing I've ever heard from your mouth."

Gilbert caught Estonia's eye and grinned back. "Mmm…I guess I'm hangin' 'round you too much."

"Why don't you take a break? You've been anchored to that chair for at least half the day…."

Gilbert was about to agree, but the still healing lashes on his back prickled. His eyes drifted back to the still open book on his lap.

"Nah. I gotta study," he murmured.

Estonia blinked in mild surprise. "Well, at least have some tea. It's probably lukewarm by now but should still warm you better than these paltry flames."

"All right," Gilbert shrugged.

Estonia set his book down, poured a cup and handed it to Gilbert before topping off his own.

The Baltic nation had just settled back into his chair when the door to the library banged open. Estonia jerked, upsetting the tea all over his lap. Gilbert jumped to his feet and spun to face the door.

A drunk Russia weaved his way in, followed by the other two trembling Baltics.

"What do you want?" Gilbert snarled.

"Gazzer 'round efferyone! I haff some good news!" Russia slurred, swinging his arms in a wide arc. Gilbert noticed a vodka bottle was gripped firmly in one hand. The other was curled around a slip of paper.

"My dear Geelbert! I am sorry to inform you, _Prussia_ is no more!"

Russia draped a heavy arm around Gilbert's shoulders. The white haired nation tried to shrug him off, but even intoxicated Russia was still stronger.

"I don't believe you."

"You don' haff to! Read it!" Russia pushed the slip of paper into Gilbert's chest, nearly knocking the wind out of him. Mechanically, Gilbert took the document and scanned it – once, twice, three times. Crimson eyes grew bigger with each successive pass. Russia's crooked smile widened. His uneven gaze drank in Gilbert's reaction.

"I think we should celebrate."

A wrenching panic twisted in Gilbert's gut. The large nation's words were no longer slurred but punctuated and deliberate.

Before he could react, Russia grabbed him by the hair and pulled his head back. Gilbert yelped in pain.

"Drink!"

Russia forced the vodka down Gilbert's throat, emptying nearly half the bottle. Gilbert sputtered and choked as the oily stuff burned his insides. Russia let go, laughing, shoving the white haired nation forward. He stumbled and was caught by a shaking Lithuania. Red eyes stared back into green. Lithuania recoiled when he saw the look in the other's eyes. It was one of fear mixed with searing hatred. Lithuania had seen it before – in violet eyes – just before the madness took over….

Russia's hand curled around Gilbert's collar and he yanked the other nation back towards him. Russia pulled Gilbert so close he could feel the larger nation's hot, stale breath waft over his cheek.

"No one wants you, Gilbert. No one but me. Remember that."

The large nation dragged Gilbert up to his room, flung him to the floor and locked the door – leaving Gilbert alone once again. The white haired nation, still reeling from the night's events, willed himself to stand despite the protests from his trembling legs. Part of him wanted to fly at the door – to kick and hit and scream "Let me out you asshole!" – but another part of him knew if he opened his mouth he would surely vomit.

Gilbert sat on his bed, back against the cold wall, and took out a pack of cigarettes. He hoped the smoke would calm the mixture of vodka and consternation swirling in his gut.

Breathe in deep, exhale slowly. Mortality certainly is a fickle thing.

Flick the ash on the floor.

What does dissolution mean anyway? Is it death in slow progression?

Inhale. Exhale. Or a quick thing?

Inhale. Deep. Exhale. Slow.

Flick the ash on the floor. _Ashes to ashes_.

Watch the tobacco become spent.

Light another. Repeat.

Breathe in deep, exhale slowly.

Flick the ashes.

Ashes to ashes dust to dust when the reaper comes in his scythe do trust now I lay me down to sleep if I die before I wake ask for me tomorrow and you shall find me a grave man mein Vater mein Vater und hörest du nicht was Erlenkönig mir leise verspricht? Light another. Repeat.

_**A/N **__So it's kind of a short one for me and I debated about extending it with what has now become Chapter 6, but I like how it just kind of ends. I hope to drunken/accented slurring reads well for you guys. And yes, the last paragraph is supposed to be disjointed and the last sentence is supposed to be a big run-on with no real punctuation._

_Stalin's __Marxism and the National Question__ – I used this title b/c Part I held a certain relevance to this story. _

"_Ask for me tomorrow and you shall find me a grave man," ~ from Shakespeare's __Romeo and Juliet,__ spoken by Mercutio as he is dying from a mortal wound_

"_Mein Vater mein Vater und hörest du nicht was Erlenkönig mir leise verspricht?" ~ from Goethe's poem __Der Erlkönig.__ In short, it's about a malevolent forest spirit who carries travelers to their death. In this case, it's a small boy and his father who encounter him riding home one night. The boy can see and hear him, but the father cannot. Translates to: "My father, my father, do you not hear what the Erl King quietly promises me?"_

_Some historical notes: 1603 – the last year of the Great Famine, occurring during the Time of Troubles when the country was politically unsettles (roughly from 1598 – 1613). It killed about a third of Russia's population._

_And of course, February 25__th__, 1947 – Prussia is officially dissolved by the Allied Control Council's law number 46._

_Thank you so much for reading! Reviews are always welcome._


	6. Chapter 6

"What is a nation?"

"'A definite community of people.'"

"Correct. Anything else?"

"'Not racial or tribal, but a historically constituted community of people.'" His lips barely moved as he spoke the words. Saying them made them true. And he didn't want them to be true. He wanted to say as much to the large man standing behind him, but found instead his lips repeating the rest of the treatise. "'It is not a casual or ephemeral conglomeration, but a sta – '" His throat caught on the word.

"Go on…"

Gilbert cleared his throat. But his voice was still ragged as he continued. "'But a stable community of people. A nation is f-formed only as a result of people living together…gen-generation after generation.'" Gilbert rushed through the last bit. The tightness in his chest was becoming unbearable. He hoped Russia would finish soon.

"Good!" Russia clapped his hands. "Now, by this logic, is Prussia a nation?"

Gilbert bit the inside of his lip and whispered, "No."

"What was that?"

_I said No you bastard. Why must you rub this in my face? _

"No!"

It had been a month since that night of vodka and humiliation and Law 46. Russia kept Gilbert locked in his room, feeding him a meager bowl of kasha once a day. Lithuania no longer brought the meals. The re-education continued and Gilbert found it increasingly difficult to concentrate without proper meals. He said as much to Russia once, out of spite. But the large nation simply smiled and promised it would all end soon. Gilbert wondered what that meant. The day he stopped talking back, he discovered the answer. Russia began feeding him more, if only barely. Toast and coffee (or an apple if he was lucky!) in the morning and a bowl of kasha for dinner. Despite this "improvement" to his diet, Gilbert still felt light-headed most days. He hardly stirred from his bed except to sit at his desk and read and smoke. Somehow that journey from bed to chair made him feel almost normal again – like he still had his freedom and only stayed in his room because that was his choice. He first noticed the tightness in his chest after two weeks. It came and went at first, but now it was a constant presence. Sometimes it felt like a snake coiling itself around his heart and other times it was like a gaping hole had been dug out of him. Something felt like it was missing. Well, it was partly true, he told himself. Russia saw to it every day. Gilbert began calling it the Affirmation. The fact that Prussia _was no longer a nation._ His people were scattered, his land was partitioned and his _name_ – the one thing he had left – only existed in history books. If he were honest with himself, he would say he'd known it for some years – ever since he was hauled off by that frigid nation and forced to live in this damned pink room! But that didn't stop him from clinging to some _hope_ that Prussia – the land, the people, and yes, even the name - would somehow survive. How could he be so naïve? The "bearer of militarism and reaction in Germany" cannot be allowed to continue. And West! Where was _he_ in all this? If the roles were reversed, Gilbert assured himself he'd have beaten down the Russian's door after a month of their separation. Doesn't he know what they've done to me, what I've endured? _No,_ a small voice said. _You can't blame your brother._ But somehow blaming West just made it easier. _Yes, I will suffer for you. I will pay the greater price, little brother, so that you may last. The great Germany._

A cold April rain beat against the window of Gilbert's room. He sat at his desk, smoking and reading. The grey skies cast his room into shadow but Gilbert didn't bother turning on the lamp. The shadows hid the pink, if only momentarily. He knew it was still there. Would always be there. He used to stare at the words to divert his eyes from that hideous color. But now, a routine – that dangerous mistress of all individuals' ambitions - had been set in motion. He breakfasted at eight, smoked, read until about ten, got up and paced the room if he felt strong enough, read some more, had exactly three cigarettes in lieu of lunch, took a nap at two, read, ate dinner, began lessons at six-thirty, smoked at eight, paced the room again, went to bed at ten. The schedule helped the days go by fast, or seemed to anyway. And that was important right? He found if he didn't keep to it, he'd dwell on his situation. His hatred for Russia never abated, but raging and cursing took energy – energy Gilbert knew he didn't have, especially when he could no longer hold his tongue and received a swift beating. But those were getting less frequent. The schedule helps ease his mind. It's the one constant he has.

Gilbert asked Russia one night after their lessons why he still lived.

"I am no longer a nation."

Russia blinked and smiled. "Gilbert, that was the first time you said it that I _actually_ believed you."

"But why? Why am I still here?"

Russia smiled again and for once, it seemed almost honest. "Gilbert, I thought I made myself clear our very first day….I own you, therefore I care about your survival."

"Then why do you keep me like this?" Gilbert snapped. He flinched out of instinct, but Russia continued to smile.

"Building a nation is like building a tower block. You've got to clear away the old buildings or weeds or trees or whatever's in your way. Then, you must make a firm foundation, and once you're sure the foundation will support your new structure, you begin the framework and so on….slowly filling in every gap. Do you understand?"

Gilbert nodded slowly.

When Russia left that night, Gilbert cried. Not soft and muffled but loud and tormented. He shrieked and wailed all night. He tore at his hair, his clothes. He was sure Russia could hear but he didn't care. He hoped Estonia would hear. Estonia would know what it meant. Estonia had known all along. _You're his new plaything. _Gilbert had only thought that meant torture victim. He was wrong. _Gott! _Was he ever wrong! He was a doll. For Russia to dress up when he felt generous or fling against the wall when upset. All the books, all the lessons – how could he be so blind? Russia was remolding him. And he let it happen! That part infuriated him the most. He had become so jaded he let it happen. All the other countries had been failures except Gilbert! And here he thought he was merely participating the "silent rebellion" with the rest of them – but no! he let Russia in, dully accepting the books (just please don't beat me), even enjoying the diversion they provided – because in all honesty he was too weak and too pathetic to fight back. Russia had broken him - made fast work of it, too. _But, I can still refuse. I can press my lips shut the next time he asks me a question. I can rip the pages out of these books. Tear them to shreds!...__**But he is keeping me alive. I've got food, shelter. That's enough, isn't it?**__...I've already recognized the signs. I'm still me. I can fake it. Whatever he wants. I'll fake it. Maybe he'll let me out again….__**But what will happen to me out there? Where will I go? No one wants me, and I can't abandon Lietuva. A promise is a promise.**_

_**A/N **__The first bits of dialogue come from Part I of __Marxism and the National Question.__ I really didn't intend to use it so much, merely allude to it…but I can't help love it! It fits so perfectly._

"_bearer of militarism and reaction in Germany" – quote from Law 46_

_The paragraph with regular italics and __**bold italics**__ represent Gilbert's conflicted thoughts_

_This story has taken on a life of its own…but I like the direction it's heading. Thank you to all my faithful readers. Your support means so much to me!_


	7. Chapter 7

November 1948

"Telephone for you, sir."

"Who is it, Zekoff?"

"I don't know. He wouldn't give me his name. He'd said you'd know him."

Russia tutted in annoyance and picked up the receiver. "Very well. Hello?"

Silence greeted him from the other end. Russia's patience, already worn thin by his useless assistant, threatened to give way.

"Hello?"

Russia glared at Zekoff. The man's eyes snapped back down to his paperwork. The large nation was about to hang up when he heard a cold, collected voice from the other end.

"_Russland."_

Russia's grip tightened around the receiver. His free hand flexed convulsively at his side. Zekoff chanced a glance upwards, but Russia had already turned his chair away from the man. Privacy was difficult in such a small office, but no matter – Zekoff wouldn't tell a soul what he'd heard, and at this, Russia smiled.

"Ah, how may I help you, Germany?"

"You know how."

"If this is about the blockade – "

"Damn the blockade! Let me speak to him!"

"I'm afraid I cannot do that. Gilbert is – what's the word? – indisposed, at the moment."

"Indis – what the _hell_ does that mean! What are you doing – "

_Click._

Russia set the receiver back on the hook and slowly stood up from the desk.

"Zekoff."

The small man jumped. He had not even seen the other walk over.

"Y-yes, s-sir?"

"Follow me, please."

Russia strode from the office, hands clasped firmly behind his back.

* * *

><p>Gilbert rested on his bed, one arm behind his head, smoking. A book lay open, face down on his stomach. He watched the gradual rise and fall with every breath he took. The door to his room stood half open. Russia finally unlocked it around the beginning of October, but Gilbert hardly ever left.<p>

For almost two years he'd been kept to the confines of that room. Funny to think before he'd have given anything to be let out. And now…now the thought sent a shiver of anxiety through him. He _knew_ his room. Every inch of it. And it never changed. Outside was a different story. He saw it every day from his barred window. The seasons changed. The people on the street changed. And Russia's house, more than likely, had changed. The idea of constancy is a fallacy, even where objects are concerned. Forces beyond that object's control can cause it to break or fade just like everything else. But the things one holds close are not subject to the same scrutiny as one's views on the rest of the world around them. To Gilbert, his room _had_ never changed and _would _never change. It comforted him. He had become accustomed to the old wooden desk, cracked washbasin, and yes, even the pink walls. He knew every detail of his room - the way the floor creaked when Russia was just outside the door or the number of fringes on the rug (275 to be exact, on each end). He even knew the number and exact location of the plaster patches on the wall from when he had put his fist through it. He and Lithuania had fixed and re-painted the wall a month after the Baltic nation's undeserved beating for sneaking tobacco. Or maybe he did deserve it. Gilbert didn't know anymore. What did it matter? Right and wrong were just words invented to define opposing actions. Duty was what really mattered. He knew it from his days as a knight and he knew it now. Why couldn't everyone else figure it out?

Gilbert took a long, final drag before stubbing the tobacco out on his bedpost. A light tapping sound came from the other side of the door.

"Yes?" Gilbert's voice had an edge to it.

"M-mister Gilbert?" Lithuania poked his head in. "I-I was just wondering if you'd like to have lunch downstairs today?"

Gilbert stared at the trembling nation. When did Lithuania start calling him "Mister?" He'd thought they'd been on more familiar terms.

Lithuania stood in the doorway wringing his hands, waiting for an answer. It suddenly struck Gilbert how much Lithuania's simpering sickened him. _He would probably apologize for scaring a cat._

"If you don't feel well – "

"No," Gilbert mumbled. "You don't have to send any up. I feel fine today."

This conversation happened every mealtime except breakfast. Lithuania knew it rote for rote - even knew when Gilbert would say yes or no. Breakfast, however, Lithuania always brought to Gilbert. It gave him some consolation to think Gilbert would at least eat _that_. But oftentimes, Lithuania came upstairs to find the breakfast tray still sitting, untouched, on Gilbert's desk. On those days, he knew Gilbert wouldn't be coming downstairs for meals.

Today, at least, he was eating. Lithuania hoped it was a good sign, but he knew tomorrow the tray would be left alone.

Gilbert slowly pushed himself up into a seated position, bringing each foot firmly to the floor. He knew he needed to move slow to avoid getting lightheaded. He also knew he needed to eat, to get stronger, but he didn't see the point. He found he rarely had an appetite.

Gilbert wavered slightly on his feet. Lithuania rushed forward to steady him.

"Mr. Gilbert, you're freezing! Here, take my coat."

"I'm fine!" Gilbert snarled, shoving Lithuania away. "And what's with all this 'Mister' crap?"

Lithuania stared at him in disbelief. "You…you _told_ me to call you that, remember?"

"Whatever," Gilbert grumbled, making his way to the door.

Lithuania ran his hands through his hair. He hoped this would pass – hoped it was Gilbert being stubborn Gilbert – but deep down he knew this new persona was here to stay.

Lithuania made a beef broth with black bread for lunch. As he ladled out his soup, Gilbert noticed some bowls were already in the sink. No doubt Latvia and Estonia had already eaten. _Probably trying to avoid me,_ he thought bitterly. On the rare occasions he emerged from his room, Gilbert noticed the other two Baltics never said anything to him. It was curious, he thought, especially for Estonia. He remembered they used to get on well enough. Now all the other two would ever do was stare. Like he was some strange, unmentionable thing.

Gilbert set his bowl on the counter and began eating small, slow spoonfuls of soup. Lithuania had not come downstairs yet and Russia was noticeably absent. Probably working. Gilbert noticed Russia had been working a lot lately. Their once daily lessons began happening less and less frequently until they stopped all together. Then Russia unlocked the door without a word to Gilbert. He just opened it, stared at Gilbert for a few minutes, then turned and left.

The familiar panic started to rise in his chest the more he thought about it. Lord how he wanted to be back in his room! But Lithuania had just entered and was watching him. Gilbert focused on his soup instead, taking larger spoonfuls. It surprised him how much the soup instantly warmed him. Gilbert didn't realize just how cold he'd been. He'd supposed he'd gotten used to it.

"Thank you, Lithuania," Gilbert said, once he finished his meal. "It was delicious."

His voice had lost some of the agitation from earlier. Lithuania looked up and smiled. Gilbert had meant it today.

"Would you like anything else?"

Gilbert shrugged. The desire to return to his room seemed to be waning. He looked down at his hands and noticed just how _dirty_ they'd gotten. The washbasin helped but dirt was still embedded in the cracks of his skin.

"I think I need a bath."

Lithuania's smile widened. _Oh this is definitely a good sign, _he thought.

"Right! Follow me, Mr. Gilbert."

Lithuania led Gilbert down a corridor on the other side of the stairs. He turned on the tap and left for a moment. When Lithuania returned, his arms were full with fresh towels and a change of clothes.

"You can wear this for now. It's just an old sweater and pair of pants I had. I'll wash your stuff this afternoon."

Gilbert nodded and Lithuania left him to bathe. As Gilbert stripped off his old threadbare clothes, he noticed just how ornate and large this bathroom was. Gilbert suddenly felt unworthy, as if his presence might somehow contaminate the space. The walls and floor were covered in white marble. A long, gold-framed mirror ran the length of the counter. The sinks and faucets were also gold. But on closer inspection, he saw the gold was tarnished and some of the marble tiles had turned yellow from lack of proper maintenance. This bathroom probably hadn't been used in years. As he stepped into the hot bath, he briefly wondered why Lithuania brought him to this one. It certainly was the most out of the way, tucked back in a corner at the north end of the house. As he sank into the deep claw footed bathtub, he suddenly knew why. Lithuania wanted him to relax. The hot water, perfumed with bath salts, worked its way into him and Gilbert realized just how tense his muscles had been. He let his shoulders droop as he leaned back against the tub. He shut his eyes briefly, savoring the moment. A few minutes' peace in a nice warm bath. Gilbert let his body sink deeper into the water until his chin rested just above the surface. This would be my heaven. He stared at the water. Faint white swirls from the melted salts floated lazily around him. Why couldn't every day be like this? He sank even deeper until the water lapped over his nostrils. The water was so warm and soft, like a great velvety blanket. He wanted to stay wrapped up in it forever. Gilbert's eyes were now even with the surface. He shut them again as his head slowly slid down, down the back of the tub, further into the water. _Keep going and this _will_ be your heaven._

Gilbert kicked his feet out. His coughed and sputtered as his head broke the surface, sending water splashing to the floor. Two trembling hands gripped either edge of the tub. He couldn't believe how easily he could have done…_that. _But the water was so inviting….He collapsed against the back of the tub, panting and wishing desperately his pants weren't so far away so he could get a damn smoke. He got out of the tub, water dripping everywhere, rifled through his pants pockets until he found the pack. He shoved the cigarette in his mouth and lit it. _**Russia's going to be pissed. **__But I almost _killed_ myself, for Christ's sake!__** You'll get a beating for sure. **_

His eyes caught his wrecked body in the mirror's reflection. Hunched and gaunt and covered in filth and scars. He stood transfixed. A hand absently traced the scar tissue over his heart. It bubbled in some places and stretched taut in others. The city formerly known as Königsberg, capital of the nation formerly called Prussia.

"No!" he shouted. "No! No! NO!"

Gilbert grabbed the soap and frantically began scrubbing himself. He had to, _had_ to be clean….No more dirt, no more scars. Everything must come off. Must be clean – clean as a baby - to be reborn - everything must be new. Scrub off the old skin so what's new can show through. He checked his reflection in the mirror. No more dirt, but the scars remained and his skin glowed red from scrubbing. He threw the soap down in agitation. A long lock of white hair fell in his face. He brushed it back and ransacked the drawers until he found a pair of scissors. He cut the offending lock. Then another. And another. And another. He kept cutting until the bathroom counter was covered in long white chunks of hair. He scooped up the hair, threw it in the trash bin and scrubbed his skin again. He rinsed himself with water from the sink, completely forgetting the bathtub.

Gilbert toweled off and examined himself once more. He was less than pleased with the result. He was clean, to be sure, but he found the more he looked at himself, the less he liked what stared back at him. The man reflected in the mirror just didn't seem right – didn't seem like _Gilbert._ Something was missing. _Yeah, you already figured _that_ out. You just haven't gotten used to it yet._ Gilbert edged as far away from the mirror as he could and started getting dressed.

As he pulled the sweater over his head, he thought he heard a faint cry. He strained his ears, listening. He thought for sure this corridor was empty. That's why Lithuania brought him here. And there it was again! Gilbert flew to the door and wrenched it open. The sound, though muffled, echoed faintly throughout the hall. Gilbert crept down the hall, following the noise until he came to a door that, had he not been moving cautiously, he would have passed without further thought. It looked shut, but Gilbert could see the latch was not fully seated. He slowly opened the door a crack, remembering all too well what happened when Russia caught him prying once behind closed doors. Still, the sound distressed him. _**It could be one of the other nations. They might be in trouble. **__Why do you care?_

The door led to another hallway. But the sound was definitely louder. Five doors down, Gilbert saw a cold green pool of fluorescent light spilling out onto the worn carpet. Russia, for whatever reason, neglected to close it. It led down a narrow corridor – no longer carpet and plaster but cement and whitewashed cinderblock. This hallway seemed somehow colder than the other one - temperatures were often hard to gauge in Russia's house – and the effect made Gilbert think he was surrounded by eight-foot high snow drifts. The doors stood barely ten feet apart.

At the end of the hall one of the doors was open. A shrill, whimpering sound issued from it. The room, hardly big enough for one man, was occupied by two – Russia and his assistant. The smaller man lay in a heap on the floor, body contorted in odd angles and face nothing more than a bloody pulp. Russia looked up when he saw Gilbert in the door frame. The ex-nation looked down at the man then back at Russia – dead crimson eyes meeting dead violet for an instant, but in that instant, an unspoken understanding passed between them. Russia shouldered his way out of the room, leaving Gilbert with the twitching pile that was Zekoff. Gilbert wondered dully what this man had done to incur Russia's wrath.

Zekoff managed to get himself up onto his elbows. He locked one arm, then the other, and pushed up, but his arms shook and he collapsed onto the floor. He turned an imploring gaze to Gilbert and opened his mouth to speak, but the only thing that escaped was blood and saliva.

Gilbert's mouth pulled down in disgust. He knew he should care, knew he should help, but why waste the effort? Being numb was so much easier. Besides, what could this pathetic man do for _him_ anyway? Nothing. Alone, this man was nothing. And in his present state worthless. A heap of flesh so purple and red and pulpy that he couldn't even _be_ considered a man anymore. Others could take his place. Yes. Hundreds of others. Gilbert saw them on the streets everyday. Anyone could take this man's place. He had no value. He was nothing special. Just a weak, scrabbling meat sack.

A familiar beast growled in Gilbert's gut – one that had not been fed in many, many months. Gilbert shifted one foot back before kicking it forward with a force he had thought was long lost. Zekoff moved no more.

* * *

><p>"Are you mental?" England slammed his beer bottle down on the table. Amber liquid sloshed onto the already sticky wood top. "What the <em>hell<em> were you thinking, calling him?"

Germany ran a hand over his face, as if trying to dispel a bad dream. He shrugged awkwardly, like a child lying to his parents.

"I don't know…I just…I thought…."

"No, you didn't think. Shit…and operations had been going well enough…dammit!"

Germany was picking at the paper label on his bottle. England sighed and signaled the bartender to bring another round. If it hadn't been for the half dozen or so beer bottles between the two, the subject probably would never have been brought up. Tensions between the two nations had been easing up and both had sense enough _not_ to bring up anything pertaining to the war. But now here it was, spilled out on the table like the beer England was mopping up. Shame and self-righteousness mingled in England's head. Germany surely brought this on himself, acting the way he did, ignoring the treaties. Some just don't learn from past mistakes. Okay, so maybe the sanctions imposed _were_ a bit harsh…Germany's economy was in shambles…patriotism is an infectious thing.

Germany rested his elbows on the table, head in his hands. England took a pull from his beer bottle. Germany didn't deserve this. All he wanted was stability and instead he got a nutter for a boss, another war, and more blame. And now Russia – that communist bastard – was busy trying to undo everything England and America had been working for. He wanted Germany destroyed and England knew Russia bled his half dry. Arthur just didn't know how to tell Ludwig his brother was already dead. Instead, England put his hand on Germany's shoulder and said: "We'll get him back. Somehow."

* * *

><p>Gilbert left the room, making his way to the main hall. He met Lithuania at the stairs.<p>

"Mr. Gilbert! How was your – " Lithuania broke off, eyes widening in horror at the blood stains on the other's trouser leg. "What happened? Are you all right?"

Gilbert turned to face the trembling nation. A strangely satisfied smile twisted his lips up sharply.

"I'm fine," he answered in a calm voice. But something lurked behind his eyes. Something wild and abandoned. Lithuania shrank back.

"Where is Russia?" Gilbert asked, again in that eerily calm voice.

"H-he's in the d-dining room."

Gilbert found Russia seated at the table, swilling a bottle of vodka. A house of playing cards stood on the table in front of him.

"Gilbert," he said, not looking up. "I'm glad to see you've cut your hair."

Russia's tone was even, not reeking of the false sweetness he often inflected.

Gilbert's voice was steady as he leaned in the doorway. "What the fuck was that?"

The massive hand holding a playing card twitched slightly as it hovered over the card house.

"I like building things, Gilbert. I find it…relaxing."

Russia took a swig from his bottle before placing the card in position with a surprising deftness unbecoming of the large nation.

"But sometimes the pieces just don't fit into place."

Russia motioned for Gilbert to sit next to him. Gilbert obeyed.

Russia took a card from the dwindling deck and stood it up on the table, holding it in place with the tip of his finger.

"You see this one card?"

Gilbert nodded.

Russia took his finger off it and it fell face down on the table.

"It cannot stand on its own. Sure, I can bend it, even fold it, to make it stand. But it would just be a cracked thing. Broken. Useless. It could not hold the weight of the other cards. I could not use it to play _eralash_ because my opponents would know which card it is." Russia paused and took another swig, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "But if I put it with the others, suddenly you have support. You have structure. And upon this, you can build. And if I don't have to fold it, it fits in the deck with all the rest. Undistinguishable. The one card is no so important as the whole. Do you understand?"

Gilbert nodded.

"Good," Russia said. "That's good."

The large nation's eyes seemed fixed on a point just past his card house. He drank from his bottle then slid it across the table to Gilbert. The ex-nation contemplated the clear liquid. He hated the stuff, but it _was_ alcohol. Freely given, at that. Gilbert took a swig.

"That's good," Russia repeated. "Very good."

They sat in silence for some time. Russia's gaze remained fixed on the card house.

"Is he dead?" Russia asked at length.

"Yes."

The large nation's jaw clenched briefly. Gilbert handed the vodka back to him. Russia took it, lifelessly raising it to his lips before pounding his fist on the table, the structure in front of him collapsing.

"_Why _can't they love me? Everything I do is for them!"

Russia turned to face Gilbert, tears welling in violet eyes. A noise escaped Russia's throat, much like the crying sound Gilbert heard earlier. And then he realized it hadn't been that man making the noise but Russia.

"One is not worth the many," Gilbert mumbled.

Russia hiccupped and nodded, smiling. "Yes. Sometimes I forget…."

He placed a hand on Gilbert's cheek, bright purple eyes gazing into bright crimson. Finally, after four long years, Gilbert understood.

**A/N **_Yeah, so RL totally took over this past week or so…not to mention loss of power from the hurricane. Anyway, here it is! I've got mixed feelings about it – Gilbert has gone off the deep end, he just doesn't realize it. I hope it came through as you read it. Reviews/criticisms (the constructive kind only, please) are always welcome! Thank you guys soooooo much for reading the story so far!_

_And now for the more technical part:_

_Obviously, the time is set during the Berlin Blockade/Berlin Airlift (I wanted a way to work Germany back into this sooner than anticipated.)_

_The name Zekoff is a sorta play on the Russian slang word for prisoner, "zek"_

_Eralash is a Russian trick-taking card game similar to bridge_


	8. Chapter 8

_When I offer you survival,_

_you say it's hard enough to live._

_It's not so bad. It's not so bad._

_How do you know that you're right?_

_~The Killers, Bling (Confession of a King)_

* * *

><p>July 1950<p>

The apartment was small. Maybe 300 square feet, if that, occupying a western corner of the fifth floor of a new bloc of tenement housing. It was not close enough to see the border but close enough to know it was there. Russia gave it to him. It's sparingly furnished, but at least it's not pink. Gilbert didn't care much about possessions any more. A bed was just a place to sleep, a chair a place to sit.

At the end of last year, Russia said he had a gift for him and presented him with two train tickets and a new set of clothes. They were going to Berlin. Gilbert knew, after nearly five long years spent in Russia's house, how unpredictable the large nation could be. He also knew Russia offered no choices.

On the train, the violet-eyed man outlined the terms for the newly formed German Democratic Republic – or his "East" as he liked to call it.

"Don't you see? You are a _nation_ again, Gilbert."

"But how? It's still belongs to Germany…."

"Not while I own it. You have people…and _land_ again!"

The prospect was a tantalizing one, but Gilbert soon learned he, just like all the other nations of the Eastern Bloc, had no real autonomy. Everything was dictated by Russia.

Still, he was out of that _house,_ had a place of his _own_. It was enough, right? And his once skeletal form started filling out again – not to where it had been before the war, but at least he could stand without feeling tired or dizzy.

Russia visited often, usually staying for a week or so to see how he was adjusting, and often bringing him new clothes - new suits, a winter coat, sweaters. The clothes fit him well enough and the colors weren't half bad. Better than a shabby faded blue uniform that was all but falling off him.

He walked the streets of East Berlin on a few occasions, wanting to get a feel for the city and his new people, though he didn't remember much of it. The war and Russia's various building projects changed a lot of it.

The people on the street glanced sideways at him, unsure of what to make of this white haired man with blazing red eyes.

No one spoke to him. When he went to a shop or bar, the merchants put his change on the counter – like he was something that should never be touched. Gilbert found this more than a little irksome. He didn't know why they seemed so distrustful. He was not sure exactly _why_, maybe because Russia was the only nation who had visited him so far, but Gilbert decided to tell the large man his concerns during one visit.

Russia offered some advice. Gilbert didn't like it, but he could see no other way. He _had_ to know they were loyal to him otherwise this new nation would surely crumble.

It took only a few months to get everything in place. Russia's had many years' worth of experience in these types of operations. He placed Gilbert in charge of training the recruits and built him a large rectangular structure with many rooms behind many doors. Gilbert noticed with a twinge how much it resembled Russia's house, but he knew the design was key to the success of his and Russia's plan.

* * *

><p>August 1961<p>

Gilbert sighed and donned his cap, standing up from his usual perch by the window. A dull throbbing was starting in his temple. He cursed and lit a cigarette. He had been reminiscing – no, that wasn't the right word, as it implied _fond_ memories – he had been _thinking_ about the past fifteen years again. It always gave him headaches and he needed his mind to be clear today. Gilbert went into the cramped bathroom and grabbed a bottle of aspirin out of the medicine cabinet, carefully avoiding himself in the mirror. He popped the cap off and dumped four white pills into his mouth and chewed. The bitter taste was a welcome distraction from the growing pounding in his head. Gilbert pocketed the bottle (he knew he'd be needing more today) and made for the door. As always, he turned one last time to the window, staring westward, and wondered just how close his brother was.

"You're late," his assistant said, arms crossed. She was a short, round woman close to fifty, with formidable looking arms covered in freckles, and tightly curled short brown hair.

"I know, I know. I had a headache. Is he here yet?"

"_Ja."_ She tossed her brown curls to the left, indicating the door to Gilbert's office.

Gilbert took off his cap and strode over to the door, wrenching it open.

"You know how much he hates waiting!" she called after him.

"Ah, my little East." Russia walked over, placing two massive hands on Gilbert's shoulders.

The white haired man secretly hated his latest appellation. The sound of it still made his stomach want to drop to the floor and he found himself missing the days when Russia called him "Gilbert."

He instead forced a grin and was pleased to notice today, at least, he didn't flinch at Russia's touch.

"So, how have things been going?" Russia asked, taking out a bottle of vodka from his coat while simultaneously grabbing the two empty glasses sitting on the corner of Gilbert's desk.

Gilbert watched the large man pour two very generous glasses before answering. "Well enough. We may need another file room soon…we've collected so much data."

Russia took a sip from his glass, smacking his lips. "Good. It can be arranged."

"Yes." Gilbert seemed to contemplate his own glass, slowly swirling the contents around. He still hated the stuff, but his right eye started twitching and he knew his headache was returning. The vodka would help. He tipped it back, nearly emptying it. Russia stared in shock for a moment before laughing and pouring him another.

"But there are still some who manage to slip past the barricades," Gilbert said at length.

"What!" Russia nearly choked on his vodka. "Gilbert! How many times must I tell you! You are on the fringes of the western world here. Capitalism is a plague – one that you must protect your people from!"

"I know," Gilbert said quietly, expecting this reaction.

"Well! What steps are you taking to prevent this!" Russia's eyes glowed manically. In the past, this usually meant a beating was imminent, but a small smile twitched the corners of Gilbert's mouth upwards as he took out and lit a cigarette.

"We're building a wall."

Gilbert went around to the other side of his desk and extracted the plans and other documents his government had drawn up. He laid them out on the desk for Russia to see. They detailed the exact height and thickness of the construct as well as placement of guard towers and various other fortifications.

Russia smiled as he studied the plans. "Good, my little East. Good."

* * *

><p>September 1974<p>

Gilbert sat by the window in his apartment, cleaning his pistol. He was part of the U.N now and West Germany officially recognized him as a sovereign state. He was glad, he supposed. It meant he really _was_ a nation – at least to the rest of the world. Gilbert still felt there was something a bit off about the whole thing. He never went to the meetings personally. His boss could handle that stuff seeing as how Gilbert was still so busy. The people continued to defy him at every turn. He no longer called them his. He had known for many years they weren't his. They were a mix of West's and Russia's and Poland's and God knows who else from the Eastern Bloc.

They looked at him with contempt. With fear. And sometimes with an emptiness that reflected his own. It was the emptiness that angered him the most. Apathetic stares from hollow eyes not even caring if he ended their life. They owed nothing to him. They knew they didn't belong to him. He merely served as Russia's surrogate.

Gilbert examined the barrel. He frowned, reaching for the bore brush to clean out the build up inside it.

One shot. To the neck. All it took. And how many times had he done it _this_ week? Or the week before? The blackness seemed to be encrusted in the barrel. But he cleaned his gun every day. And did a damn good job of it too. The cloths _always _came out clean at the end. But the black persisted. Day after fucking day.

Gilbert turned to the window, hoping to see the city, but the light from his lamp reflected in the glass, throwing his own image back at him. He stared at it, trying to see past it until his eyes crossed, doubling his face. Then his double face became _theirs_. Each and every one of them. Multiplying until they filled the glass panes, staring silently back. He wished they would scream. God he wanted them to scream! Wanted to know they were still alive somewhere. Wanted to know they had some other fucking emotion than apathy!

Then their faces changed. All those traitors…they all had Russia's face. Russia's cold, dead stare. Russia's lopsided grin.

Gilbert tore his gaze from the window, got a beer from the fridge, and plunked it down on the table. They deserved what they got. It no longer mattered to _whom_ those people belonged. They couldn't identify with him or remember who he was. He stood alone. The last remnant of the Kingdom.

Gilbert took a swig from his beer and shoved a cigarette between his lips. After satisfactorily oiling the components, Gilbert re-assembled the gun. He wiped it down and was about to insert the magazine when he noticed it still had one bullet left. Strange. He was sure he'd emptied both clips during training that evening. Gilbert studied the brass casing, the lead tip. Funny to think a thing so small could fell something so big as a man.

Gilbert loaded the magazine and chambered the bullet. He held the gun up, barrel pointed to the ceiling.

One shot. Watch the blood spill out.

The anger beast inside him stirred, the smell and promise of red tickling its senses.

That's all it took.

One shot.

To the neck.

_Do it._

And done.

_Do it!_

No more faces.

_DO IT!_

The cold metal connected just under his jaw. Gilbert shut his eyes and pulled the trigger.

Nothing. The safety was still on.

Gilbert exhaled. A shaking hand placed the gun on the table. He took another swig of beer, but the beast demanded blood. Gripping the bottle firmly, he smashed it onto the table. The shards ripped through his palm as blood, glass and alcohol went everywhere.

Gilbert looked at the mess and slumped onto the table, his body heaving with violent sobs.

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN**__ So here it is! Finally after two long weeks. Chapter 8. I have to say, I started off hating this chapter (which is probably why it took me so long to post it – that and the past 2 weeks have been a bit hellish in the real world) but I actually find I like it a lot. Ok, enough modesty….I fucking love it! Thanks to everyone who's been keeping up with the story so far! Your enthusiasm for it is infectious and you guys seriously rock my world!_

_So onto history stuff: _

_~German Democratic Republic was declared on October 7, 1949. It had state administrative authority but no real autonomy._

_~Yeah, I made Gilbert become East Germany. Love it or hate it history buffs, that's what my head canon dictates. And in being East Germany, I made him part of the Stasi (East German secret police modeled on the Soviet MGB and formed in February 1950)_

_~The Berlin Wall – begun August 13, 1961_

_~December 1972 – Basic Treaty signed between East and West Germany, both recognizing each other as sovereign states_

_~September 1973 – East and West Germany admitted to the UN_

_~And if anyone's curious, Gilbert's pistol is a Makarov PM_


	9. Chapter 9

_Du rennst Obwohl du müde bist Du schweigst Wenn dir nach reden ist Du kriechst Auch wenn du aufrecht gehst Du bist am BodenWenn du vor mir stehst_

_Du lachst Wenn dir zum heulen ist Du weinst Nur wenn du glücklich bist_

_Du schreist Wenn du deine Ruhe brauchst Wenn du wieder mal im Meer Voller selbst-mitleid tauchst_

_Du quälst Damit du keine schmerzen hast Du schießt Damit dir keiner eine Kugel verpasst_

_Bist hart Damit dich keiner schlägt Damit dir keiner irgendwann Deinen Ast absägt_

_Du bist mein anderes Ich Du bist mein zweites Gesicht Du bist mein größtes Problem Du bist Schizophren, du Du bist Schizophren, du Du bist Schizophren Du bist krank im Kopf Und ich kann es sehn_

_~Schizophren, _Megaherz

* * *

><p>October 1980<p>

Ludwig walked his dogs past that wall so diligently the guards could have set their watches by it. He told himself it wasn't deliberate, just that that Russian had built the thing along his normal route when they split his capital. Still, any observant pedestrian in the street could say he lingered perhaps a bit too long in front of the check point, blue eyes scanning beyond the barrier for a glimpse of what, only Ludwig knew.

Sometimes the light played cruel tricks, casting shadows over the faces of white haired men as they made their way along the street. More than once Ludwig had to stop himself from calling out "_Bruder" _before the sunlight shifted, revealing an aged face in place of Gilbert's.

How could he know at that exact moment, as the setting sun cast its golden light across Berlin, his brother sat just beyond the barricade, contemplating the phone and a call he desperately longed to make?

Gilbert thought about phoning his brother before. During the rare moments the silence in his office threatened to pound out his eardrums, Gilbert's hand would reach for the shining black receiver but always stopped short of picking it up as the awful truth flooded in. He knew he couldn't call West because he knew…knew he was being watched, just like every other citizen of East Germany.

He could pretend most days it didn't touch him – that system he and Russia created – but Gilbert knew better and the quiet days always brought the stinging reality back.

Gilbert leaned back in his chair, propping both feet on his desk. He lit a cigarette just to have something to do and stared at the phone. Could he do it today? The plastic shone like a beacon on his cluttered desk. He glanced at the clock. Nearly seven. His assistant had already left for the evening and the office was so unnaturally _quiet._ Just to hear another voice would be something. He could always say he dialed the wrong number. Gilbert snorted at that, swinging both feet onto the floor. Still, West might not even _be_ in Berlin. Maybe he moved. If he called and someone else answered, it'd be like a half-truth.

Gilbert stretched out a shaky hand, fingertips brushing the glossy black. He curled his hand into a fist, digging his fingernails into the fleshy heel. He did this dance every time despite already knowing the outcome.

He couldn't call West. Even if Russia never found out, what could he possibly say to him? It had been nearly thirty-five years since they'd last spoken, and even _that_ had been on less than agreeable terms.

"_Scheisse,_" he muttered, letting his hand fall to resting beside the phone.

As he did, the bell-like ring rent the still air, jerking his heart into his throat and his hand forward. Gilbert nearly knocked the phone off the desk but managed to catch it just in time.

"Beilschmidt," he answered, with an even tone that belied the thudding in his throat.

"Ah, my little East," came the sing-song voice from the other end. "I thought you would be on your way home by now?"

"I'm just finishing up here."

"Wonderful! Then you can join me for a drink, _da_?"

Gilbert clenched his jaw. Having a drink with Russia was the last thing on earth he wanted to do, but he could not reject the offer because Russia never asked…he ordered.

"Sure. Where?"

"The usual spot. See you in fifteen."

"_Ja._"

* * *

><p>The bar was unusually crowded for a Wednesday night and Gilbert was glad. This way he could pretend to listen as Russia talked, nodding his head occasionally to show he was listening. A four-piece band was tucked off in one corner, cranking out some old Soviet jazz.<p>

Russia was sitting in a booth by the window. A bottle of vodka and two glasses stood in front of him. He hailed Gilbert when he saw the white haired man enter.

Gilbert hitched a smile onto his lips with practiced ease. Too many nights had been spent like this – sitting in a bar or restaurant with Russia, listening to him prattle on. Sometimes Gilbert didn't mind so much, it was good to have company, but other times his mind would stray to the past. He would think about the times he and West used to go drinking and how he used to joke and laugh, _really_ laugh. He was sure he was happy then, but those times were so far away he couldn't be certain. So he learned to cover those doubts with a superficial grin for Russia's sake. He couldn't bear the questioning looks the large nation gave him. He was alive and he should be thankful. Still, he wondered, was survival worth it?

Russia poured two glasses as Gilbert sat down. They gave each other a silent toast before knocking the liquid back. Gilbert hardly winced any more at the taste. Russia poured two more and began talking about his trip. Gilbert was surprised to learn he had arrived two days ago with Lithuania.

"How is Liet?" Gilbert asked, perking up a bit.

"I don't think I should have brought him. I think the journey made him ill...you know how he is, such a worrier, _especially_ when it comes to travel. We may be leaving sooner than expected if he hasn't improved by tomorrow."

"Oh. Sorry to hear it."

Gilbert slumped back in his seat. The idea of company, other than Russia's, would have been a welcome diversion to Gilbert's daily routine. He hadn't seen the Baltic nation in decades either. Russia kept them apart just as much now as when they'd lived in the same house. But it wasn't all Russia's fault. Liet could have easily written to him…or Estonia…or hell, even Latvia. They were all on the same side over here.

Gilbert's eyes narrowed. A sour taste was forming in his throat and he took another shot of vodka trying to swallow it. He felt Russia's eyes studying him. Gilbert kept his head lowered, deliberately avoiding Russia's gaze, and poured another shot of vodka.

"East, what is it?"

Russia's voice sounded muffled amid the rowdy bar patrons. It really was too loud in here.

Gilbert shrugged. How could he tell Russia he'd been thinking about West again? The only time he'd asked the large nation for permission to visit his brother ended in disaster – a broken nose, bruised ribs, face so puffed up he could barely see, and (Russia's personal favorite insult) the reminder about his brother trying to abolish him decades ago. He'd forgotten how cruel Russia could be.

He picked his head up and scanned the bar. Red-faced men hung onto the bar or each other for support while floozy women, dressed younger than their years, tried to catch their eye. Barmaids brought more rounds as the music increased in tempo and couples began to dance. Gilbert hated and envied them.

Russia could guess what was going through Gilbert's mind from the sour look scrawled across the white haired nation's features. His own mouth pulled down in a frown as his lips pressed tightly together. Gilbert was truly a soldier. But his diligence and obedience were often masked by his cocky attitude. Russia admired this trait early on, when Gilbert first came to live at his house. Sadly, Russia thought, the only way he knew how to bring out the best in Gilbert was by force. Perhaps he'd forced too much. No, he decided, that wasn't it. Above all else, Gilbert was a nostalgist. How many times had he insisted on being called Prussia? He lived in the past, held too many regrets.

"East, it will only get easier when you learn to forget."

"Forget?" Gilbert snorted. "What the hell do I need to forget about?"

"You carry your past like a burden on your back. It's time to let go of it and embrace what we've worked so long to accomplish."

"I _have _embraced it!" Gilbert spat. "Don't forget, I came to _you_ for help…I've done _everything_ you've asked of me…."

"And don't _you_ forget that I saved you!"

Russia was on his feet now, pointing an accusatory finger. Crimson eyes glared manically back as images of the many ways he could spill Russia's blood flashed in his mind. Gilbert licked his lips convulsively. He could almost _smell_ the metallic scent. He was the monster defying his creator.

_No, _a small voice said. _No, you can't win against him. You're just a leech, a parasite, sucking on his blood when you need sustenance. And he can squeeze you dry anytime he wants. Pathetic._

Gilbert's gaze dropped. He poured a double shot and slid it across the table. Russia sat back down and sipped the drink.

They sat in silence, drinking until the bottle stood half empty. The tension between the two had eased but still palpable enough to make speaking difficult.

"Well, I need to check on Lithuania," Russia said at length.

Gilbert nodded at the table, still refusing to look up.

When Russia realized he wasn't about to see him out, the large nation went around the table and placed a hand on Gilbert's shoulder, giving it a surprisingly gentle squeeze.

Gilbert didn't flinch. Instead, the weight seemed almost comforting.

He turned his head to speak only to find Russia had gone.

Gilbert's eyes dropped to his watch. It was only half past seven. The bitter taste was working its way back up his throat. Thirty minutes. _He called me out for drinks only for a half hour when I could have been on my way home, spending a nice relaxing evening in! And now he up and leaves to go be with Lithuania – whom he knew was sick! – why bother coming out at all? And – _He was jealous, he realized. Russia's attention was focused on some one other than him and he was jealous.

Gilbert clenched his jaw and reached for a cigarette. No. No, there's no _way_ he could be jealous. He still hated Russia, right? Yes, well, hate is such a strong word….Gilbert buried his face in his hands. _Why do I have to be so alone?_

Gilbert took the half empty vodka bottle up to the bar and grabbed a stool. It seemed pointless sitting in a large booth by oneself. The band had taken a short break. With their departure, the noise level had dropped considerably. Still, that didn't keep some from speaking vociferously…most notably the two men on Gilbert's right. The one leaning on the bar with his back to Gilbert was trying to silence his companion, who had started cracking jokes. Gilbert laughed to himself at first. It was obvious the guy wanted to impress the young barmaid for every time she walked by, he flashed her a cocky grin and his volume increased. The young woman, though, seemed to become more embarrassed each time she had to pass by them. She glanced at the joker and his friend, then around at the bar, and finally at Gilbert, before quickly dropping her gaze and walking away.

Something was wrong, Gilbert realized. The joker's companion, the barmaid – their actions sent up red flags. Gilbert knocked back another shot and poured another, casually leaning in to listen.

"Hey, did you hear about the new Trabant? It's gonna have two exhaust pipes…so you can use it as a wheelbarrow!"

Gilbert's stomach clenched. Part of him wanted to laugh and part of him knew he'd brought men in for far less crimes.

"Or, hey, you know about Christmas, right?" the joker said.

"For Chrissake, keep it _down_, Lutz!" the other implored.

"It's been cancelled because…because…."

Lutz trailed off, noticing for the first time what the barmaid was trying to tell him without speaking.

Gilbert glared down the bar at the young joker, hand gripped firmly around the vodka bottle.

"Well, finish it, _comrade._ Why has Christmas been cancelled?"

Lutz mouthed wordlessly for a few seconds.

Gilbert stood up from his bar stool and walked over to Lutz's side.

"Don't get me wrong, I like a good joke, comrade," Gilbert said, voice softening. "Go on, finish it."

Lutz glanced at Gilbert, as if looking for further sign of approval. Gilbert nodded in earnest and poured him a shot.

The man looked at his friend - whose face had gone completely blank - then back at Gilbert, before deciding it was all right to continue.

"They called off Christmas because Mary couldn't find any diapers for the baby Jesus, Joseph got called to the army, and the three kings couldn't get a travel permit!"

Lutz and Gilbert exploded with laughter while Lutz's friend and the barmaid exchanged nervous glances.

"You got another one, comrade?" Gilbert asked, clapping a hand on Lutz's shoulder.

"Another one?"

"Yeah," Gilbert grinned, fingers dug into the young man's shoulder blade. "I want to hear another one."

Lutz swallowed and looked at his friend. The other gave the minutest shake of the head.

"I-I don't know a-any more."

"Oh, _das ist schade!_ I _really_ _do_ enjoy a good joke."

Gilbert grabbed the joker by the shirt collar, pulling the man's nose level with his.

"_Wie heissen Sie?"_

"Lu-Ludwig."

A shadow passed over Gilbert's face. His grip relaxed but his eyes still held Ludwig's. They were blue, too.

"I have done a lot worse for a lot less," Gilbert said in a low voice. "Loose lips like yours can cause problems. But I'm off duty tonight and I don't want to hear about any more problems until tomorrow. _Verstehen Sie, was ich meine?"_

Ludwig nodded his head emphatically.

"_Gut. _Keep the vodka. I've had enough."

Gilbert released Ludwig, lit another cigarette, and made his way home.

* * *

><p>April 1986<p>

Gilbert stared at the mountain of paperwork on his desk. So many files to process. So many nameless faces. His eye began to twitch again. He reached in the desk drawer for the bottle of aspirin. The headaches, once an occasional annoyance, now seemed a daily occurrence. Gilbert crushed eight of the white tablets between his teeth. The bitter taste helped, if only a little. He knew he'd need more in a few hours.

Rubbing the bridge of his nose, he pulled the top file from the stack and opened it. The black and white image of a balding man stared back at him. Werner Wilhelm Reiniger. Age: 54. Occupation: schoolteacher. Crime: conspiracy.

Gilbert's eyes scanned the rest of the file, not really taking in anything. He kept getting drawn back to the photo. To the man's eyes. They were so different from the other prisoners'. They gazed back almost in sorrow – the kind devoid of self-pity. It was all-encompassing. The man looked like he could have wept for his captors rather than in spite of them…like he could weep for the whole fucking world and all its misery.

A dull rushing sound started between his ears, punctuated by the echoing of barking dogs. Gilbert remembered the night they arrested Reiniger.

They kept him for three days isolated in a cell, bathed in a constant sickly green fluorescent light. Gilbert came to question him on the fourth day, accompanied by two Dobermans.

The dogs had been beaten and starved the day before. The smell of the prisoner's sweat and fear enticed them. Werner would be an easy meal.

Gilbert held their chains tight at first, as he interrogated Reiniger. But with each answer, he slackened his grip more and more until the dogs could taste Reiniger with their tongues.

The dogs snarled and bayed, covering the man in globs of foamy saliva. And Gilbert laughed at the sight. Laughed and laughed until one of them managed to bite into Reiniger's leg. The beast in Gilbert danced with delight. Oh how he could see it now! Just let go of the chains and let the dogs tear and rip! Bites and gashes. Flesh and blood. Let me see it! Drop the chains and let me see!

He felt the metal loops sliding through his fingers, but something in him – something deeper than the long buried Anger – snapped his hand closed and pulled the Dobermans away. He shut the door on Werner Wilhelm Reiniger, hoping to be quit of this man tomorrow. Just put a bullet in him and be done with it! His testimony was useless. He was lying. Reiniger had memorized his story verbatim, answering each question calmly, though the dogs hadshaken him up somewhat. But Russia insisted Reiniger would offer up contacts if pushed. And that was Gilbert's job, to push and push until they broke.

Gilbert sighed and stood up from his desk. Time to begin.

_Click-clack click-clack click – _His hard-soled boots beat an endless rhythm through the silent hall, matching the pounding flaring up again in his head. He reached in his pocket for the aspirin only to find it wasn't there. He cursed himself for having forgotten it in his desk drawer and knew he didn't have enough time to go and get it. Russia was probably already waiting outside the cell. The large nation took an interest in "special cases." Unfortunately for Reiniger, Russia deemed him special enough to warrant a personal visit during the interrogation process.

A particularly nasty, stabbing pain shot through his temple, almost doubling him over. The cell doors spun, lurching in and out of view. Gilbert thought he would vomit. He pressed his back against the cold cinder block wall and took a cigarette from his coat pocket. _You can get through this_, he told himself, lighting the tobacco. He took a drag and kept walking.

_You look troubled, East._

_ It's just…sometimes I wonder if it's worth it._

_ What is?_

_ What we do…to the people._

_ East, you have a duty to protect them. From the polluting influence of the western world as well as from themselves. If _you_ question this, then your people will question their allegiance to you and next you'll have an uprising on your hands._

These remnants, from a conversation he once had with Russia, floated around in the back of his head. He wasn't _thinking_ about it, specifically (he tried often not to think when the headaches plagued him), it was more like an old record, skipping and repeating. Gilbert had no choice but to let it play. If he tried to stop it, his head hurt worse.

Russia stood outside Reiniger's cell bobbing up and down on his feet and positively beaming. At the sight of him, Gilbert's mind seemed to clear and a malicious grin stretched across his mouth. He unlocked the door. The usual psychological methods had failed to work on Reiniger. He repeated his testimony in a monotone voice that greatly conflicted with the passion and sorrow reflected in his eyes. Reiniger was hiding something and Russia insisted Gilbert try a more physical approach.

Reiniger was not, as Gilbert had expected, lying on the bed. Instead, the man was standing straight up facing the door, like he had been expecting them. His red-rimmed eyes stared defiantly past Gilbert at the wall outside the door. This was inexcusable. It was nighttime. The prisoner ought to have been lying on his bed, not standing there waiting - _waiting,_ as if Gilbert had failed to keep an appointment!

Gilbert grabbed the man by his grizzled hair and stubbed his cigarette out on the man's arm. He flung Reiniger out into the hall and he and Russia led the prisoner down to the basement for interrogation.

* * *

><p><em><strong>An**__ Wow. It feels like it's been a month since I last updated. Sorry for the delay, btw…working 12 hour days for close to three weeks will do that…yay crazy times!_

_Ok, so um, this chapter wasn't meant to be this long…hell the first half wasn't even planned, it just sorta happened. So what was supposed to be the second half of this chapter will now be chapter 10 and I should hopefully (fingers crossed) have that up by Saturday night. Ok, I think that's it….now for the meat…._

_Various German phrases:_

_Scheisse – shit_

_Das ist schade – that's a pity_

_Wie heissen Sie? – what's your name (formal)_

_Verstehen Sie, was ich meine? – Do you understand my meaning?_

_The jokes about East Germany, I got from this website: _.de/international/zeitgeist/0,1518,655123,_ _

_And I found this website while researching general differences between East and West Germany. I thought it was funny the author called the East Germans "Prussians" so I thought I'd share for your perusing pleasure._

.

_Blah blah blah….I know I'm always forgetting something…..whatever, just message me if something needs clarification. Thanks for reading and as always feel free to review!_


	10. Chapter 10

The first lash struck and his world exploded in red and white and black. He was certain he was being ripped apart. The second lash licked his skin – already on fire from the first – and his back arced in pain. Then another. And another. Metal barbs peeled back layers of flesh. His torso twisted as his feet fought to stand. He was sure a shoulder had been dislocated. He now hung there, supported only by the ropes bound around his wrists, like some sad marionette.

Reiniger spat curses at the white haired demon, for that's what his torturer was. Nothing that sadistic could be called human.

The demon only laughed at Reiniger's insults, demanding answers to its questions.

The whip stopped, just before the pain became numbing. The demon walked around to face Reiniger. A bony hand stretched out and grabbed his throat, forcing his head up. Red eyes danced back and forth in their sockets, searching Reiniger's own.

"Why won't you answer me? Do you think the people you're protecting give a shit about you? Huh? They're just using you. We already know everything. We've got names, addresses. The only thing we need from you is your confession. Just say the words and this will end."

Reiniger spat in the demon's face. It didn't even blink. Thin lips cracked into a grin.

"Have it your way."

Reiniger cried out as white-hot pain flooded back in and he knew he would die. His body could no longer contain it.

No longer barking questions at his captive, Gilbert's arm swung the whip wildly, hitting arm and leg as well as back. He was aware of nothing else. Eyes, open and alive, gloried in the contortions of Reiniger's body every time he was struck.

"Don't forget, we still need his confession, East."

Russia's words were distant and garbled as they fought to cut through the static between Gilbert's ears.

Reiniger felt the momentary hesitation in the whip before it connected with his flesh again.

Gilbert let his hand fall, shaking from the adrenaline coursing through his veins. The pounding in his head ceased almost as soon as the interrogation began. It always did. But every pause brought the rushing noise back. If he stopped now, he'd have an ocean between his ears. He wouldn't be able to stand or even keep his eyes open in the sickly green light. Gilbert _could __not_ show weakness in front of this prisoner…or in front of Russia.

Wild eyes searched the bleeding, scarred back of his prisoner for an answer before flicking to the dingy grey walls of the interrogation room. Something! There has to be _something_ to make him break. They all do, in the end. No one has ever defied him. _Yes, __they __have._

A cry ripped itself from Gilbert's chest.

"All this for a goddamn confession! You! _All_ of you have wasted my time for forty fucking years!"

"East…."

A cautionary undertone suffused Russia's voice but Gilbert didn't hear it.

"Why! Won't! You! Just! Obey! Me!" Each word punctuated with a crack of the whip.

"Why! Can't! You! Love! Me! Lo – "

The whip froze in mid-air.

_ Gott, what have I become?_

The static reached a fever pitch louder than Gilbert had ever heard. Instead of an ocean, it was a swarm of black flies. Incessantly buzzing. _Gott_, it's so loud! Couldn't Russia hear it?

He was certain the insects were coming out of him. Black dots obscured the sides of his vision. His head felt disconnected from his neck, like a balloon floating upwards…or a ball precariously balanced on the edge of a knife. The room started to tilt. A low rumble, like that of a kettledrum, reverberated off the cinder block walls.

Gilbert swung his head to see a crooked grin etched on Russia's face, the large nation quaking with laughter.

"Ah, my little East…you learn so well…."

"Fuck you!" Gilbert snarled.

He started towards the large nation, but the floor fell away from him. Gilbert lost his balance, arms pin-wheeling in a desperate attempt to stay upright. The whip swung down. Russia dodged the barbed tongue but not before a metal tip caught the side of his jaw, leaving a red gash from his cheek to the corner of his mouth.

The action stunned the large nation. Russia instinctively reached a hand up to his face. He pulled it away, staring at the red streak marring his massive palm. He sank to the ground, still staring at his palm, and pulled out a silver flask. Russia took a swig. Clear liquid mixed with blood dribbled down his chin, staining his pale coat. Russia laughed. Laughed and took another swig, mesmerized by the color on his hand.

Gilbert was on the floor, face pressed against the cold, damp concrete. The noise between his ears subsided, replaced by a sharp throbbing. He chanced a glance around the room and saw Russia laughing madly at his hand, the gash Gilbert had made stretching wider. And the white haired nation _was__not__sorry_ for it. Reiniger hung, lifeless, from his ropes. Gilbert pushed himself up, staggering over to the prisoner. He hurried to untie the man while Russia was distracted. Reiniger had lost consciousness but his gaunt frame proved light enough for Gilbert to carry. He hurried Reiniger up to the hospital wing.

* * *

><p>Gilbert ordered the night nurses to attend to Reiniger's wounds. They bandaged the man up, a perfectly composed guise of numbness masking their fear but not their trembling hands. The hospital staff was too scared to question Stasi tactics. A sickening satisfaction spread through Gilbert's gut as he watched them. He cursed silently and stepped out for a smoke, disgusted with himself.<p>

_I__'__ve __become __what __I__'__ve __hated __most._

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Flick the ash. Light another.

The tobacco did little to ease his nerves. Gilbert stubbed out the cigarette and went to check on Reiniger.

The nurses had given the prisoner a bed in one of the far corners. Gilbert made his way over, all too aware of the sidelong glances the staff cast his way.

He pulled up a chair and sat by the man's bed. He looked so strangely peaceful. He could be sleeping. But Gilbert knew better. At least the man was breathing – the gentle rise and fall and of the bed sheets told Gilbert that much. He sat with Reiniger through the night, refusing to eat or rest when offered.

* * *

><p>Reiniger felt himself slipping between wakefulness and the dream world. One moment he was quite certain he was lying in a bed covered in crisp linen sheets; the white haired demon perched beside him, its own eyes heavy from sleep. The next moment, he was twelve, trying to help his mother pull their cart out of a snowdrift as they fled Königsberg. The harder they pulled, the deeper the wheels seemed to sink in the snow. His mother cursed and his sister cried and Reiniger fell to his knees and started digging. The cold quickly found its way though his too-thin gloves. His hands refused to move. No one stopped to help. No one except a gaunt, tired looking soldier with hair and skin as pale as the winter sky and eyes like glowing embers.<p>

Reiniger was awake again. He watched the thing beside him thrash as it slept, agony twisting its brow and mouth. Reiniger watched as it jerked and sputtered incomprehensible thoughts and for a moment he pitied the man...for a moment, he looked like...no, impossible. Reiniger's eyes slid shut.

When they re-opened, he was twelve again, staring at the weary soldier. The soldier smiled, lit a cigarette, and gave Reiniger his own gloves. He took out a shovel and started moving the snow away from the wheels. Once the snow was clear, the soldier dragged the wagon back onto the road. Reiniger's mother kissed the man on his cheek, thanking him. The soldier told her it was no trouble at all. Then he extended a hand toward Reiniger. The boy grasped it, shook it earnestly, and asked the man's name. The soldier grinned, ruffled Reiniger's hair and said: "Prussia."

Reiniger stared back, bewildered. "Are you mad at us for leaving you?"

"No." The white haired soldier toed out his cigarette. "The only thing that matters to me is that you live...You grow old, have lots of kids, and you live."

With a casual wave, the soldier set off towards the city.

* * *

><p>Dawn crept its way into the cold, sterile hospital wing, casting pale pools of light across the beds before spilling down onto the white and grey linoleum. It was this light – flaming orange against his eyelids – that woke Gilbert up.<p>

He did not know how long he slept. His sore joints told him it must have been for a few hours at least, but then again those could also be a result from the dreams he'd had.

Gilbert stretched his back, listening to it crack as his spine lengthened. He twisted his neck, looking around the wing. No sign of any staff members. A rasping breath made him turn back around.

Reiniger's eyes were open.

Gilbert ran a nervous hand over his face several times – fingers fidgeting in the fleshy part of his cheeks before dropping to rub his chin.

He opened his mouth to speak but no words came. Gilbert clenched his jaw. He must look like an idiot child. All the authority he held simply flew away like paper in a breeze.

Reiniger seemed to be studying him, making Gilbert grow even more uncomfortable. However, as he sat watching Reiniger watching him, Gilbert noticed a curious light behind the man's eyes. The corners of the man's mouth twitched up in a gentle smile as Reiniger began to speak.

"_Preussen__…_." Reiniger breathed.

All of the air in the room seemed to have been sucked out. Gilbert's throat was surely closing.

"What…what did you call me?" he choked.

Gilbert straightened his back, angling himself closer to Reiniger, hands reaching out.

"Say it again..." he whispered, gripping the sheets.

"Prussia."

Gilbert's lips twitched. He bit the inside of the bottom one to get it to stop.

"How…?"

"I remember…you."

Gilbert's face blanched, knuckles whitening in twisted linen.

Drawing breath was proving difficult but Reiniger forced the words out, seeing the stricken look in the other's face.

"S-snowdrift. The wagon. Before the…first siege. My m-mother…sister and I…fled."

As he spoke, Gilbert noticed the light in the man's eyes grow brighter with each word, replacing the sorrowful gaze that had captivated the white haired nation. "We _never_…forgot…you," Reiniger breathed.

Gilbert reached out, taking the man's hand. Hot tears pricked the corner of his eyes.

Reiniger's chest contracted one final time. He exhaled a rattling puff of air...then, stillness.

* * *

><p>Gilbert watched the sun set over the city, reflecting its orange glow in the windows and on the pavement. East Berlin looked like it was on fire.<p>

He did not remember how he got back to his apartment – all he could think about was the hospital and Reiniger and a decision that had to be made.

Gilbert didn't hear the door open but felt a cold draft of air enter followed by the familiar heavy hand on his shoulder.

"It ends now," Gilbert said.

Russia's deep, rumbling laugh filled the small apartment. "My little East…it will never end. You belong to me still."

"You knew….You _knew_ some of them were mine, from before the war…when I was still – " his former name choked in his throat.

Gilbert turned to face Russia. The cut from the whip distorted his already lopsided grin. Russia hadn't bothered to get it stitched. The gash pulled open as Russia's smile widened.

"Is _this_ what you meant…all those years ago? 'Blood for blood,' you'd said," Gilbert's voice cracked. He swallowed the lump forming in his throat, shaking his head. "I only thought you meant _mine!_"

"Remember, too, East, one is not worth the whole. You _can_ be replaced."

"Do it then! I will not be your puppet any longer. I don't care what you do to me, but I will not harm my people!"

"Ah, but East, _you_ had the files…you knew more about them than I did."

Russia's face was close to his, indeed Russia's whole body seemed to fill the cramped apartment. The arctic nation leaned in, closer still, and whispered: "Now, ask yourself, _why __didn__'__t __you __stop __before?__"_

Gilbert flinched, turning his head away. _Because __they __had __forgotten __me._

Russia straightened, pleased at the effect his words produced. Gilbert's shoulders drooped as he turned towards the window once more. He shoved his hand in his pocket and extracted a crumpled pack of cigarettes and lighter. Trembling hands shoved a bent cigarette between his lips before striking the lighter to life. Russia was right. Gilbert _had_ the files. He knew all along.

Gilbert's heart hammered in his chest – a yellow bird beating bloody wings against a metal cage. He wanted to rip it out and throw it against the wall.

"What is a nation?"

Gilbert jumped at Russia's voice. He almost forgot the other nation was still there, but in seconds he found himself reciting the treatise he was forced to memorize countless years ago.

Russia's laugh interrupted him. A massive hand gripped into Gilbert's bony shoulder, spinning him around to face the violet-eyed nation.

"You are quite wrong, my little East. A nation is forgetfulness. The framework required to form a nation doesn't just happen over night. It takes _time_…an endless amount of time. And strength. We were _born_ from fire and death. It is essential for our survival that the people forget the past brutalities."

"Is that how you justify it?" Gilbert spat.

"Justify what, East?"

"What you…what we…do to the people. The torture, the espionage."

"Each day brings something new," Russia said in his sing-song way. "New bosses, new principles and ideas, and over time the people forget the ways of the old regime."

Gilbert's eyes flicked back to the window. "You're wrong. He remembered me."

Gilbert's eyes met Russia's again. A shadow darkened the bright violet.

"You live in the past, East." Russia's voice was low, dangerous. "I expect you back at your office tomorrow morning. Is that clear?"

Crimson eyes stared at the hand gripping his shoulder. A strange grin, reminiscent of the arrogant smirk he used to wear, curled his lips.

"We're done here," Gilbert said, shrugging off Russia's hand and heading for the door.

"East!"

Russia grabbed the smaller nation's arm and pulled him into a crushing embrace.

"You can't leave me, East."

"What the fuck!"

Gilbert tried to break free, but Russia's grip tightened more.

"You can't leave me East."

Russia's sing-song voice was back but it cracked in pitch. His body shook as a ragged breath escaped his throat. Russia was crying.

"Don't leave me, don't leave me, don't leave me…."

Massive hands dug into Gilbert's back as Russia fought to hold on even though Gilbert had stopped struggling.

"I need you, East!"

A mixture of pity and disgust swirled in Gilbert's head as he flashed back to the conversation he'd had with Lithuania decades ago. _I__abandoned__him__…_

Russia faced Gilbert, tears streaming down his cheeks. Arms still pinned and at a loss for anything to say, all Gilbert could do was stare in disbelief. He really did look like a child, Gilbert thought.

"I need you, East," Russia whispered.

Russia pressed his hand on the back of Gilbert's head as his lips crashed violently into Gilbert's. He felt the arctic nation's tongue searching, teeth gnashing, as Russia forced their lips together.

A twist of pain and a taste of metal told Gilbert the larger man had bitten his lip.

Russia tasted it too and drew back. A spot of red glistened on his mouth. Gilbert stared at it, trying to comprehend what just happened. Sorrow flickered in Russia's eyes and his grip slackened.

Seizing the opportunity, Gilbert slipped through Russia's arms and ran for the door.

"East!" Russia bellowed.

Gilbert glanced over his shoulder. Avarice and anger once again shadowed Russia's eyes.

"You'll be hunted, East! I promise you!"

"For the last time, it's _Prussia_, goddammit!"

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN**__Oh __my __God, __my __darlings, __I __am __truly __sorry __it __took __**this **__freakin__' __long __to __post __this __chapter. __I __have __no __excuse __other __than __I __just __didn__'__t __make __time __for __it. __I__'__m __so __so __sorry! __I__'__ll __try __not __to __let __it __happen __again, __especially __since __we__'__re __nearing __the __end __here. __But __in __a __way, __it __was __kinda __good __b/c __I __was __able __to __go __back __over __multiple __times __and __tweak __certain __things .__It __was __feeling __too __rushed __at __first, __and __for __me, __this __chapter __is __the __climax/turning __point __of __the __whole __story. __I __do __so __hope __you __enjoy __it. __It __was __one __of __my __favorites __to __write! __Reviews __are __always __welcome. __Thank __you!_

_And sorry to all my story's subscribers, if you got inundated with e-mails. I did make some changes in an effort to make it flow better._

_~A nation is forgetfulness comes from an essay by French historian Ernst Renan. "Forgetfulness, and I would even say historical error, are essential in the creation of a nation….Unity is always achieved by brutality…"_


	11. Chapter 11

_**A/N** First, I would just like to thank ALL of you who have read this story and the wonderful reviews I've received. I promise it will not be abandoned, updates are slower but they WILL happen, especially after getting threatened with a pitchfork from **Naviar** – it make me pleasure smile! ^_^ Again, I cannot thank you guys enough! Oh, yeah, and Merry Christmas!_

* * *

><p>It was Wednesday, and that's important because?<p>

Because….

Because….

Well, it was Wednesday.

He walked just across the street from it – the Wall. His left hand absently dragged along behind him, running along the cement buildings as if they could give up some secret.

_There had to be a way…._

He kept his head low, all too aware of the binoculars trained on his back. He swore he'd never go near the thing. It was the first spot Russia was sure to check. But sometimes the safest spot was at the heart of the lion's den – you could watch them as they watched you.

Gilbert stopped. There was a gap in the block of buildings. There wasn't _supposed_ to be _any _gap here. He'd walked this path so often….

"What's this doing here!" he yelled out.

Something struck his abdomen. White fog obscured his vision. He collapsed on the rough pavement, thinking they'd shot him.

"Get up!" someone barked at him.

He felt a strong hand slide under his armpit, felt his shoulder crack, as he was yanked back up onto his feet.

His vision slowly re-focused and he realized he was _not_ outside, walking along concrete sidewalks, but _inside, _standing on a peeling linoleum floor. A light above his head burned an angry red. It hurt his eyes looking at it.

From the corner of his eyes, Gilbert saw man standing beside him, fastening a baton back on his belt. He wore a crisp uniform, one Gilbert had seen many times. _But that couldn't be…._

The light overhead turned green. The guard grabbed Gilbert's arm, pulling him forward.

_How the hell did I end up here?_

* * *

><p>It was Wednesday, and that's important.<p>

Because….

Because…because today he was going to meet his contact from the Underground.

Unlike Switzerland, Gilbert never had much faith in banks. He kept a small amount in a safe in his old apartment, preferring to stash the bulk of it in hidden pockets sewn into his shirts and pants. So when he fled his apartment that day, he was loaded. It kept him in cigarettes and vodka and, most importantly, good contacts. During the decades he'd spent as a Stasi officer, he knew which groups had been fully infiltrated. It did not take long for Gilbert to get a lead.

Money certainly had a way to expedite even the slowest of processes and in mere days, he had some excellently forged papers.

Gilbert met the man in a corner bar. After a lengthy discussion about crossing in Berlin versus going through another country, the man persuaded Gilbert the most direct route was his best bet. After all, he _just_ had to get to the Western side of the wall.

"Why go around your ass to get to your elbow?" the man joked.

Gilbert was to pose as a West German businessman who had come to visit his aging uncle. The only thing left for his contact to obtain was a fake travel visa, which, he assured Gilbert, he would have in a week.

"Meet me here next Thursday, eight o'clock, and you will have your ticket to the West, my friend."

And so Gilbert did. The man kept his promise. He handed Gilbert the visa, toasting his health.

They drank away the rest of the night, singing Soviet songs with a knowing wink in their eyes.

When the bar was getting ready to close, the man offered to call Gilbert a taxi. Gilbert laughed, pushing him off, saying: "_You're_ the one who'sh drunk. I can walk home from 'ere."

He stood up from his bar stool, taking a step to prove his point, but his legs were tangled and he fell on his face.

"Okay, maybe you're right," Gilbert conceded, nose pressed against the sticky floor.

The man stood over him, hands on his hips, laughing. "C'mon, get up, you idiot!"

"Wha-? But I tol' you, 'm drunk!"

"We're going now."

"Going? Where? 'Nother bar?" Gilbert asked, slowly pushing himself off the floor.

"Where we go everyday, Gilbert."

He blinked. "I never…told you…my name…." _Why was speaking suddenly so difficult?_

"Yes, you did. It was the very first thing you told us. Now get up!"

_Us?_ he thought, dully. _What is…where…?_ He could no longer form complete thoughts. Each word was like a fish in the water and he struggled to grasp even one. His head felt like it weighed fifty pounds. It throbbed with every word the man spoke.

He shut his eyes, trying to regain focus. When he opened them again, it was to a stinging white light.

"Why's it so bright in here?" he shrieked, almost like a child. His hand flew to his eyes, covering them. "Why's it so bright! Where the hell….!"

"Open your eyes, Gilbert." The man's voice was cold but strangely sincere.

He obeyed that voice, cracking one eye, then the other. A stale white room with seasick green curtains. An oblong desk with telephone and tape-recorder. Two wooden chairs. He was in an interrogation room.

"Now, get up or I'll have them do it." The man nodded to the door. Gilbert knew there were guards just on the other side.

He slowly, carefully, picked himself up, sliding back onto the hard chair.

"I didn't tell you to sit," the man said in that eerily calm voice.

Gilbert's head was still trying to process the command. It felt like he hadn't slept in weeks….

"Stand up!" the man barked, patience worn thin by the prisoner's insolence. "You're going below."

* * *

><p>It was Wednesday and that was important because tomorrow it's coming down – the Wall. But the world doesn't know that yet. <em>He<em> doesn't know it either.

Gilbert was lying curled up on the wooden bed, staring at the wall, hands pressed between his knees. He was probably cold but any feelings or sensations he may have had were completely stripped away.

"Hey! The sun ain't down yet! Get your ass up!"

Gilbert hauled himself to his feet. He was an automaton, programmed to obey, but _God he was so tired!_ He lifted a foot to begin the daily pace around his tiny cell. As he brought it down, he doubled over. For a moment, the guard thought he'd injured himself. But Gilbert's head jerked up a second later, cracked lips spreading, and…he laughed. Laughed and laughed. Mad, hysterical, tear-streaming laughter.

"What the hell - ?"

"Bring me Braginski!" Gilbert cried, flying to the door. "I want to thank him."

"Who?"

"Braginski! Braginski! Ivan Braginski!" Gilbert pounded his fist against the steel door. "Russia! I want to thank my dear big brother Russia!"

"Shut the hell up or we'll take you downstairs again!" The guard's threat went unheard above Gilbert's cries of "Braginski! Braginski! Braginski!"

"Ivan, where are you?" Gilbert called in sweetly teasing voice, as if the large nation was actually in the room and was just playing hide-and-seek.

"Fucking lunatic," the guard muttered, shutting the small hatch in the door.

Gilbert eyed the door. Once he was sure the guard was gone, he limped back to his bed and collapsed on the hard surface, staring at the wall. He wondered how many more times he could get away with it. Acting crazy was easy, but every time left him emptier.

He was certain he'd been here over a year, possibly two – a fairly long stint – but he lost track quickly. The first few months, he struggled to remember where he even _was._ Sometimes he still did. If the guards did not periodically check on him or if he wasn't occasionally summoned for questioning, he was certain he'd been abandoned, left to die in this cramped, cold cell.

Why he was being kept so long, he had no idea, other than the fact he "interested" his interrogator. This was both a blessing and a curse. It meant there were still _others_ out there, beyond the steel door, and they knew he still existed. It also meant long hours filled with an endless barrage of questions – and a fight to stay awake and stay sane.

Lying on the bed, he relished how easy it would be to jump into the warm waters of madness. He'd already dipped his toe in, so why not plunge the rest of himself into the churning black? West would never find him and Russia certainly wouldn't free him. If the Stasi believed he truly _was_ insane, he'd be worthless to them, and then the bullet would come….

The door to his cell banged open. In stormed the guard from before, followed by another.

"Thought you said he'd lost it?"

"H-he did! He was raving!"

Gilbert watched them argue from his bed, grinning.

"Waste o' my time…."

"Look! He's smiling right now. Tell me that's not twisted…."

"…Guess you're right. We'll sedate him anyway…."

_Wait, what?_ Gilbert bolted up, but it was too late. The needle was in his arm, the numbness spreading, as the drug-induced haze took away all thoughts….

* * *

><p><em>Who's West, Gilbert?<em>

_ **M-my bruder, of course.**_

_Ah, yes, of course. Your 'brother.' But why hasn't he come for you?_

_ **He won't let him.**_

_Who won't?_

_ **Russia.**_

_Ah, yes. And why do you think he won't? _

_ **…Because he….**_

_…Because he…?_

_ **…because West…**_

_…Doesn't want you._

"No! No no no!" Gilbert screamed, thrashing against the bed.

"Shh. Go back to sleep, Gilbert."

Black hands reached out, forcing his shoulders against the hard surface.

"You lie! You lie you lie you lie!"

"Go to sleep," the voice purred.

The hands rested gently on his forehead and they were so cold against his burning skin. So cold and so soothing….

* * *

><p><em>He could see the city from the road. Citizens brave enough to flee and fortunate enough not to have been shot trudged past, bodies bent double with the weight of whatever precious belongings they could gather. It wasn't all of them, not nearly all of them. Why hadn't the order to evacuate been given? Gilbert silently cursed West and his boss and the whole damned Nazi chain of command.<em>

_ He joined an infantry division as they fought to maintain the connection with the ports to the west. Rations had been cut, but finally evacuations were underway. His people might stand a chance. He hoped at least _some_ would survive._

_ In February they finally broke through, but not before he was critically wounded. Russia's army had been using a school in the town of Metgethen as a stronghold. If they could capture it and drive the Soviets out, they could reopen the road and rail line between the Baltic Sea and Königsberg._

_ A searing pain ripped open his chest, followed by another, and another. One of the shots narrowly missed his heart. The other two struck him just below the shoulder. He was evacuated, along with a handful of refugees and the other wounded, at the end of February._

_He recovered quickly – one of the perks of being nation. He couldn't die from the hands of humans (or so he thought.)_

_ In mid April, he was in Berlin, looking for his brother. The wounds, though closed on his body, were still open and fresh in his mind. The rest of the world (and the war) could wait. He _had_ to find West. He had to know why nothing was done, why the German seemed content to sit on his hands about Königsberg…._

_ He found him in a building that was being used a command post. Gilbert barely registered the looks the soldiers gave him as they fled. The shells were getting closer. His brother was in the back, gathering up whatever papers he could. _

_ The first blow struck Ludwig between his shoulder blades, the files fluttering to the floor. The second hit him in the liver. He turned around, a swinging right hook aimed for the gut of his assailant. But Gilbert caught his arm before it connected._

_ "Gil! What the hell - ?"_

_ "What took so long?" Gilbert's nostrils flared._

_ "What are you talking about? What are you doing here - ?"_

_ "Königsberg! What. Took. So. Long?"_

_ "For what?" Ludwig yelled. An explosion rocked the building. "Gil, we need to go – "_

_ "The evacuations!" Gilbert fumed, unfazed by the shaking building or the scream of mortars. "It was okay to give the order to shoot fleeing civilians but not evacuate them? They were starving, West, and we were cut off! Is that what you wanted? Us penned like cattle? You think it would have been easier –? "_

_ "Easier to what?"_

_ "To get rid of me! Destroying that many of my people!" _

_ "Where the hell did you get that idea?"_

_ "Your boss! It's always been Deutschland über alles with him. He took you away from me! Am I so horrible you want me gone?"_

_ A blast took out the north wall, burying Ludwig under a pile of rubble before he could even answer._

* * *

><p>Germany scanned the crowds. Countless faces poured in but none of them were <em>his.<em> Maybe he's still over there. Maybe he hasn't been able to push through yet. _Maybe Russia still has him._ Germany shook his head, trying to clear away such thoughts. No, Gilbert was free…Gilbert _had_ to be free from that Russian. Germany _knew_ it. He just knew it….

"He's too awesome for that," he muttered to himself, chuckling a little.

Gilbert just hadn't found a way through yet. That was all. And Germany was determined to keep watch for his brother all night if he had to.

When the sun began to set the next day, and there _still_ was no sign of Gilbert, Germany found himself rising from his perch, feet mechanically working their way home.

His mind was curiously blank. At some point that evening he'd made himself coffee. The steaming mug sat in front of him, untouched. Germany stared straight ahead, at the refrigerator opposite him, at his distorted form reflected in its metallic surface.

_How could he not be there?_ The words – his thoughts – startled him out of his daze.

_How could he not be there?_ His head repeated. _He _is_ over there. Somewhere. He's not gone._ Germany's head fell into his hands._ Not gone. Not gone. Not gone!_ He clawed his face, willing the tears not to fall.

A loud bell rent the still air. His phone was ringing. _Maybe…._

"H-hello?" he breathed, trying to quell the fluttering of his heart.

"…G-Germany?"

"Yes. Who is this?" His voice regained some of its authority when he realized who it wasn't.

"L-Lithuania. I-I'm calling about your brother," came the whispered, hurried response. "I know where he is."


	12. Chapter 12

December 1989

Hands, strong and cold, lifted him up.

"Don't worry Gilbert. I've got you," the colorless voice echoed in his feverish head.

Gilbert peeled open one eye, trying to identify the speaker, but was met with dark, indistinguishable shapes. The effort was too much. He felt so heavy. How could this person be carrying him?

"Where're we going?" he asked, forcing his lips around the words.

"Home."

Something in Gilbert smiled. He cracked one eye open again, and this time he saw the faint outline of a pale head and shoulders wrapped in a winter coat. Toned arms flexed and shifted, negotiating Gilbert's weight, as his carrier walked.

Gilbert shut his eyes, letting his head loll back against the firm crook of his carrier's arm. He repeated the word: _Home._

The other's chest pressed firmly against Gilbert's side. He felt the rise and fall of each steady breath. Warmness emanated, contrasting greatly with the cool hands that held Gilbert so close. The white haired nation couldn't remember the last time he'd felt such heat.

"Gilbert…."

"Mmmm?" he groaned in response, checking his muscles to keep them from tensing even though he was little better than a rag doll. But the slightest movement might scare away the warmth….

"…I only wanted to save you…"

"I know that…."

The world behind Gilbert's eyelids flickered and danced in shades of lavender and ivory and violet. Russia's face swam into view. He smiled down at Gilbert.

The effect reminded Gilbert of a carnival mask – cheeks pulled across a toothy mouth, eyes empty and unseeing. It wasn't the same Russia that had visited him, that had brought him vodka, that had saved him….

The face was getting closer to his. Gilbert twisted his head away, and with a jolt realized he could no longer feel where the hands were.

With what little strength he had left, Gilbert flailed his jelly-limbs in all direction.

The sudden lurch somewhere around his navel caused by an unexpected fall told him it must have worked. Russia had dropped him.

But when he picked his head up, casting an alert eye about, Russia was nowhere to be seen.

"Welcome back," a familiar voice drawled.

"Uh…what?"

"You fell asleep," Estonia said, sipping his tea.

Gilbert felt a cool, damp spot on his chin. He hastily wiped it away with the heel of his hand. He'd been drooling.

Estonia smirked as he watched Gilbert over the top of his book.

He was back in Russia's library. A fire roared in the grate. A book lay at his feet, obviously upturned after his dream induced thrashing.

"What time is it?" Gilbert asked, rubbing his face.

"Time?" Estonia quirked an eyebrow. His eyes flitted to the clock on the mantle. It hadn't been wound in years, the second hand hovering in the gap between ten and eleven. "Time doesn't matter here. You know that, Prussia."

"That's not my name." The words flew out of his mouth before he knew what he'd said.

"Oh, yes, I forgot. It's 'East' now, isn't it? Russia's little buffer zone."

Gilbert shuddered. "Don't remind me."

"I warned you didn't I?"

"You mean your vague allusions? Is _that_ what you fucking call it?"

Estonia sipped his tea in response.

Gilbert folded his arms and stared crossly into the fire. "So how the hell did I get here? Did Russia bring me back?"

"Don't be silly," Estonia scoffed. "He wants nothing to do with you. His plan failed. And I must offer congratulations, by the way."

Gilbert gave Estonia a slanted glance. Why did it seem like the Baltic nation was mocking him?

Estonia leaned forward, placing something on the table between them. His book. No. Not a book. A stack of playing cards.

"No, Russia did not bring you back," the Baltic continued. "Isn't it obvious?"

Estonia picked up the cards and began to shuffle. _He's definitely mocking me._

"Fucking just spit it out already! Why do you enjoy talking in riddles? Yes, I'm an idiot, okay? Happy? No need to rub it my damn face."

"Gilbert, this world is your own creation. _You_ brought yourself back here."

"….What?"

Estonia sighed, glancing at the fire. "You're dreaming. When have you ever seen a fire this large in Russia's house? Never. Stingy bastard. And _time stands still_ in dreams."

"Why the hell would I come back here?"

Estonia shrugged, dealing out the cards.

"…But, you're smart. Tell me why I'm here!"

Estonia shook his head. "Gilbert, you really don't give yourself enough credit. Think, for a moment. It all started in this room. You were dissolved and then Russia locked you away, chiseling away bits of you. Which, I _am_ quite surprised he did it so quickly, but I guess he had to in order to build up his East – "

"What are you talking about?"

"Atonement! You came back here looking for some _thing_, some _key_ that could help you atone for what you did under him. And you started as you always do, by looking to the past, when really only your future can change. That clock (Estonia glanced at the ancient thing on the mantle for effect) won't go backwards. It can only go forwards. And you have to accept that."

"How can I change it? I'm in a damn prison. One _I_ helped create – "

"Well, that was your first step – going against Russia."

Something about that statement struck Gilbert. He _had_ gone against Russia – the only thing that had kept him alive for the past forty years. He'd changed his future, all right – now what would happen to him?

"I'm dead," he whispered, but the Baltic nation did not hear him. Estonia was looking at the clock again. The second hand was moving, it's dull ticking barely audible above the crackling fire.

A faint smile tugged at the corners of the bespectacled man's mouth as he glanced back at Gilbert. "Tick-tock, Prussia."

"That's not my name – "

"I know it's not, Werner. I called you _'Prussian.'_ You are, aren't you? Or were, I guess."

"What?"

"Christ, you need to get your hearing checked."

"With what they pay me? Doubt it." Gilbert snorted. _Did I just say that? Am I still dreaming?_

The spectacled man sitting across from him cast a furtive eye around the small apartment before leaning in and whispering: "I know all about your black market contacts."

The two men exploded with laughter.

"Yeah, this shithole's a good cover, huh?" Gilbert said, gesturing to the faded wallpaper and peeling countertops. _I must be dreaming…_

"Now, c'mon, Reiniger, are we gonna play cards or what?"

"Wait, did you hear something?"

"First he can't hear me talking to him and now he can hear a cockroach behind the walls…" his friend said, eyes rolling heavenward.

"Shhh! It sounded like – "

Dogs barking. He shivered. How could he have let his guard down?

The noise sounded at once close and far away. Did he have enough time? Could he move? His elbow connected with something solid and he realized he was pressed into the far corner of a cramped holding cell. They'd already gotten him.

The barking was definitely getting closer – or maybe it was the acoustics of the damp basement amplifying the sound – either way, he refused to show weakness. He would not be caught, laying on the floor like a piece of meat. He would stand and face them, as a man ought to.

He pressed his back against the cold stone, trying to push himself up with his legs, but his weary bones screamed in protest. He fell to the floor, an age-spotted hand covered his face as he silently wept. _Why can't they kill me with dignity? Why must it be dogs?_

The door swung open, the baying of the hounds echoing between his ears, blocking out any other thought or sound. He could feel their hot breath getting closer as the white haired demon eased his grip on their leashes….

"Get them away from me!" Gilbert screamed, limbs thrashing.

He bolted up, trying to climb the cell wall, but fell back, caught in a tangle of bed sheets.

Ludwig, who had been asleep in a chair by his brother's bed, woke with a start.

"What?" he grunted. He cracked a sleep-filled eye to see Gilbert fighting to get out of bed.

"Gilbert! Gilbert, calm down! What is it?"

The younger blonde, now on his feet, fought to pin his brother's flailing arms.

"D-dogs!" Gilbert wailed.

"I've always kept dogs, Gil," Ludwig said between gritted teeth. Keeping his bother restrained proved more difficult than he'd thought. When he'd found the wrecked Prussian, he didn't think Gilbert could possibly have this much strength….

The white haired man blinked, arms falling lamely to his side. "…West?"

Gilbert looked from Germany to the door to Germany then down at his hands. No age spots. He curled them in the dark blue linen. The fabric contrasted greatly against his pale flesh.

"I…I…was dreaming…." He said it as a statement, but to him it was still a question.

"I know. You've been out for nearly four days," Ludwig said, easing himself back onto the chair.

"Four? But…how…." A dampness spread across his neck. Gilbert's hands flew to his shirt collar. It was completely soaked in sweat. Tiny rivulets worked their way down the back of his neck and forehead. He rubbed a hand across his face, inelegantly wiping his wet palm on the sheet. Ludwig frowned at the darkened smear.

"You had a fever. Probably still do. You were shaking and muttering when I found you."

"…Found me?"

"_Ja._ Lithuania told me where Russia was keeping you and after some arguing with your government I was able to – _Scheisse!_ You don't even know!" Ludwig slapped a palm to his forehead. "…Gil, th-the Wall…it's…it's fallen."

If Gilbert's face could have gotten any paler, it would have.

"I need a smoke…."

Ludwig's head twitched to the bedside table. He'd picked up a pack of his brother's favorite cigarettes – as well as two cigars dipped in cognac for the celebration that had been robbed from him.

Ludwig never liked his brother smoking in the house, but he supposed he could make an exception. Gilbert _was finally_ home, after all. Even though his rational side wanted to protest, saying Gilbert was too sick, too weak, Ludwig couldn't deny him this small thing. Besides, Prussia only listened to Prussia.

He handed his brother the pack. Gilbert took one out and shoved the pack in his shirt pocket.

For a moment, he flashed back to the army hospital as he watched Ludwig light the tobacco. He almost expected a lecture about how he should rest and really needed to think about quitting, but what he got was:

"Just keep it to your room, okay? You know I hate the smell – "

Gilbert lunged forward with surprising speed, grabbing his brother by the collar. He pulled Ludwig nose to nose with him, red eyes searching bright blue back and forth.

"You fuckin' with me?"

"What?"

"Are you fuckin' with me!"

"Gil, I don't – "

The white haired man flung Ludwig away from him and bolted out of bed. He wrenched the door open, eyes scanning for something along the frame. There was no padlock on the other side.

Gilbert sank onto the edge of the bed, facing away from Ludwig. He took a long drag, wishing his hands would stop shaking.

"Gil? I-I'm sorry. It was too soon to tell you. I should have waited…."

"No. No, it's not that….It's….C-could I use your bathroom?"

"Sure. Across the hall." Ludwig's bewildered expression held the question he wanted to ask, but Gilbert didn't turn to see it.

He turned on the tap, cupped his hands, and splashed the icy water on his face. The movement in the mirror caught his attention. He flinched away.

_Get a hold of yourself. It's West. Just West._

Both hands gripped the sides of the sink. He slowly raised his head, staring at his reflection.

It disgusted him.

He'd spent the better part of forty years avoiding mirrors at all costs and now he wished he'd kept that practice. Two red eyes glowed from hollow sockets. His cheeks sunk in and his mouth pulled down in a frown. Scowl lines etched across his forehead. He tried smiling, but instead of arrogant he just looked more manic.

Gilbert pitched to the side, vomiting in the toilet.

"Are you all right, _bruder?_" Ludwig called.

Gilbert sank back against the wall and breathed: "Yeah."

Ludwig entered and sat on the floor beside him.

"At least I made it into the toilet this time," Gilbert laughed – a dry, self-deprecating thing. "You remember that time we got so shit faced and I puked everywhere _but_ the bowl?"

"…That wasn't me. That was Austria," Ludwig mumbled.

"Oh. Right."

Gilbert felt the saliva drain down his throat and he retched again. Ludwig rubbed his brother's back until the heaving stopped. Gilbert fell back against the wall, letting out a long, slow breath.

"Feel better?" Ludwig asked.

"_Ja._" Gilbert fished out another cigarette.

Ludwig opened his mouth the protest but thought better of it.

"I'm going to start breakfast. I think you should be hungry after that." Ludwig tried to smile, but the joke fell flat.

Gilbert eyed his brother with a look the younger one couldn't quite place.

"Whatever," Gilbert mumbled.

After Ludwig left, Gilbert made his way cautiously to his room. Was he really here? He touched the walls, traced the picture frames – he and West in military uniforms, him straddling a DKW motorcycle with elbows resting on the handlebars, West sitting on a pier with his dogs. He raked his memory, trying to recall the images, but the effort was like pulling up an anchor from the depths of a churning sea. And photos could easily be manipulated….

Gilbert turned to his room, eyeing it suspiciously. Prussian flag on the wall over the bed. Deep blue sheets. A simple wooden dresser with mirror. Hanging from the mirror was an iron cross. _His_ iron cross.

The morning sun shone its dimpled light though the grey shear curtains, casting an odd glow on the beige walls. For a moment, they looked pink.

_It's a trick. Atrickatrickatrick! _

_ West came to _me_! We're still on the other side!_

Gilbert pulled open the drawers, sending the contents flying. He felt around, looked inside. Nothing. He flipped over his mattress, felt around the headboard, ripped down the flag. Nothing! He tore open his closet, pulling clothes from hangers and still nothing, nothing, nothing! In desperation, he turned to the mirror and put his fist through it. No camera lens blinked from behind it. It was one sided.

He stared at his bloody fist and began to shake as a high-pitched laugh filled the room. The white haired demon had returned. "Oh, you think you're so smart, Russia, but I can play your game too!"

"Gil?" Ludwig stood frozen in the doorway, spatula gripped tight in one hand. "Gil, what are you doing?"

Gilbert looked dazedly at his wrecked room. He flapped his hands wildly, gesturing at nothing, as if that could make Germany understand.

"I…I…I need some air!"

He pushed past Ludwig, thundering down the stairs. He grabbed a coat off the rack and slipped his feet into a pair of dirty work boots.

"_Bruder_ what's going on?" Ludwig called, hurrying down to cut Gilbert off.

"Leave me alone, West."

Ludwig reached out for Gilbert's shoulder. "Talk to me. Let me help – "

"You can help by leaving me alone!"

Gilbert's hand was on the doorknob.

"Gil!"

"I said fuck off!" Gilbert grabbed Ludwig by the collar and shoved him away. The younger blonde's head snapped back, banging against the wall. He sank, stunned, onto the stairs, blue eyes angling up in confusion and hurt. Something in Gilbert smiled briefly as he pulled open the front door, turning his back on his brother.

* * *

><p>He didn't know where he was going. He simply <em>went.<em> The cold December air filled his lungs and his feet soon found a path – albeit a haphazard one – and a purpose. He _had _to know which side he was on.

Gilbert rambled though neighborhoods, past early morning travelers either on their way to work or just now coming home from late night celebrations. Nothing looked right, for either East _or_ West Berlin. Nothing, until he found a familiar copse that spilled out before the looming Brandenburg Gate.

"It's a colossal mind-fuck, isn't it?" a man beside him said.

Gilbert nodded, dumbfounded.

Gaping holes appeared everywhere as construction vehicles worked to dismantle it. People stood on either side, watching.

Gilbert came to his senses and grabbed the man, desperately asking: "But _which side_ are we on?"

"What! Have you lost it? It doesn't matter anymore."

"It matters to me," he breathed, pushing the man away.

Gilbert stepped through one of the gaps, making his way past the Gate. The cold, boxy structures all but crumbling away told him which side he was on. It hadn't been a trick. Russia _had_ abandoned him and Ludwig had come for him.

He turned and headed back for the wall, stopping just in front of the Brandenburg Gate to watch a crane lift up a piece of the cement barrier. He lit a cigarette, delaying the return to West's house. He wanted to pretend, at least _one more time, _he was still a nation.

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN **Whoa, crazy dream sequence! Yes, Gilbert is finally back with West, but y'know not before having some weird ass dreams. And as for the date at the top, I found out the wall didn't really "fall" in November 1989…people just crossed the border in droves. And then the next day, thing went back to normal (sorta). But the photos and videos of cranes and bulldozers tearing the thing down happened in late December. I found a cool vid on youtube from the BBC and one of a German report covering the nights of November 9-11. Google: historiesofthingstocome (dot) blogspot_

_Anyway, I hope this does not disappoint! Thank you guys so much for keeping up with this story. I'm thinking one, maybe two more chapters and this puppy will be cooked! (I just realized that's a kind of gross metaphor.)_


	13. Chapter 13

_This is the first (thing I remember) __Now it's the last (thing left on my mind)_

_Afraid of the dark (do you hear me whisper) __An empty heart (replaced with paranoia)_

_Where do we go (life's temporary) __After we're gone (like new years resolutions)_

_Why is this hard (do you recognize me) __I know I'm wrong (but I can't help believing)_

_I'm so lost. __I'm barely here_

_I wish I could explain myself. __But words escape me._

_It's too late __to save me_

_You're too late._

_You're too late._

_You're cold with disappointment __while I'm drowning in the next room._

_The last contagious victim of this plague between us._

_I'm sick with apprehension._

_I'm crippled from exhaustion._

_And I dread the moment when you finally come to kill me._

_~Blink 182, Stockholm Syndrome_

* * *

><p>Ludwig found him seated on a bench in the park directly in front of Brandenburg Gate. He leaned forward, both elbows resting on his knees, attention fixed on the Wall – or what was left of it. A near-spent cigarette dangled from his fingers. The tobacco found its way up to pale lips followed by a mechanical inhalation of smoke.<p>

He walked over, hands buried deep in his coat pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold. His feet were already numb from the hours spent walking the length of the Wall looking for his brother.

Ludwig settled beside Gilbert – torn between blessing him out or hugging him – but a part of him doubted if his brother would even acknowledge him.

He compromised by joining in Gilbert's silent vigil.

If Ludwig had envisioned their reunion (and he _had_, many times), it would have gone something like this: Gilbert sauntering triumphantly through the barricade, cocky grin in place, embracing Ludwig, and the pair of them setting off for the first bar they could find. But what he got instead was manic outbursts followed by awkward silence. It _was not supposed_ to be this way. He should still be able to recognize his brother, but what lurked behind those crimson eyes was not Gilbert.

The cigarette had burnt out. Gilbert blinked, flicked it away, and reached for another, his trance seemingly broken. He was aware of a presence beside him. A quick, slanted glance told him it was Germany.

"How did you find me, West?"

"…I had an idea."

Gilbert snorted. "Guess I really am that pathetic, huh?"

Ludwig didn't know what to make of that statement. Gilbert's voice was hollow, colorless, and he couldn't ignore the nagging feeling that maybe he'd been wrong to bring Gilbert home….

"No," Ludwig said, more to dispel his own doubts than reassure Gilbert. He dropped his eyes to the pavement, ashamed by his own selfishness.

"You don't think I'm pathetic? For wanting to go back there?"

"No, it's – I just….I don't know. I th-thought you'd be happy. To come home to me."

A growing weight pressed on Ludwig's chest. Gilbert still had not taken his gaze from the dismantled Wall. He still had not turned to face his brother. And Ludwig longed for his brother to look at him. He needed to stare into those crimson eyes because he needed to know the old Gilbert still existed. He needed to know his brother had not been swallowed up by this new persona. _Prussia_ still existed, somehow, deep inside. Ludwig refused to believe it had been replaced by

"East," he grumbled, jaw clenched and eyes narrowed.

"Don't call me that!" Gilbert hissed. "You can call me 'Gilbert' or 'His Majesty King of Dogshit' or whatever! Only _don't_ call me _that_!"

"No! I wasn't! I – "

"Christ, you don't know what it's like!" Gilbert said, cutting across Ludwig. "I'm glad I got the see you again, West, but…."

_But I'm not sure I can call _this '_home' either…._

"…Fuck! Forty years! That's barely enough time to get your own place going, and then to have it just…."

_Taken away. _

Ludwig clenched his fists in his pockets, nails biting into the fleshy part of his palms. His Adam's apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed, fighting the growing constriction in his throat. It had been decades since he'd cried, and even _that_ had been because of Gilbert.

"…So…." Ludwig said, wiping the back of his fist across his nose (because of the cold, he told himself). "Would you rather go back there?"

Gilbert shrugged in the following silence. He felt as if he were two people, occupying the same body. There was the Gilbert that wanted to go back home with West and just hang out, have a beer, and joke and laugh like he used to. Then there was the Gilbert that wanted his power back. He had been robbed of it twice – first by the Allies and then by his own brother. He survived it the first time, thanks to Russia, but would he be able to do so the second time? He had no land to occupy and his citizens would eventually assimilate into West German culture. They would forget – and perhaps so would he – the things he did as East Germany. And then he could accept whatever happened to former nations with grace, because honestly they _needed_ to forget him. He really _was_ that horrible. If only he had gone away all those years ago…but how could he tell Ludwig these things?

"You can't _want_ to go back, Gil," Ludwig whispered. "I…heard things…rumors…about what it was like." He desperately wanted to believe they weren't true, that his brother had no part in what the government did over there. It was all Russia. It had to be. "They kept you prisoner, _bruder._ When Lithuania told me – "

"That's enough," Gilbert said sharply.

He stood, running a hand through his already messy hair, turning his back on the remnants of the Wall. "Christ I need a drink."

Ludwig soberly nodded, leading his brother away from that place.

* * *

><p>Old habits die hard and when they found the nearest bar, Gilbert chose a seat in the very back, allowing him the see the entire place without his back being to the door.<p>

The place was nearly empty except for maybe half a dozen barflies, each occupying their own table. They glanced up briefly as the brothers passed before returning to their mugs. Gilbert was vaguely aware of how absurd he looked dressed in a coat, pajama pants, T-shirt, and boots. But considering the rumpled appearance of the other patrons, he didn't look _that_ out of place.

"What ya havin'?" the bored-looking barmaid asked.

"A pitcher of – "

"I'll have a double vodka," Gilbert interjected.

Ludwig cocked his eyebrow, glancing sideways at his brother, then turned back to the barmaid. "Fine. A double shot for him and I'll just have a mug of your darkest beer."

"When did you start drinking vodka?" Ludwig asked after the barmaid left.

Gilbert blinked, mildly surprised, before remembering who he was with. "Funny the things you pick up," he sneered, tilting his head back.

Ludwig ducked his head, running a hand through his hair. Gilbert's mouth twitched up. He'd embarrassed his brother. A small victory, but one none the less. This was all Ludwig's fault. His younger brother _owed_ him something after all those years of separation. It was not enough Ludwig spent half the day looking for him. It was not enough Ludwig sat by his bedside for four days fretting over him. It was not enough Ludwig brought him back from that Stasi prison. Things simply could not go back to the way they were. He would not allow it (he couldn't let his guard down again, not even for his brother.)

Gilbert chewed on a cuticle, eyes studying Ludwig, who seemed to be inspecting the table.

"I'm sorry," Ludwig said at length. "I-I just wanted to bring you back so badly. I _tried_ – "

"Well you should have tried harder!" Gilbert spat, all too aware of how childish he sounded. "What am I supposed to do now, West? Did you even think of that?"

"I – "

"No, you didn't! And Christ, where the fuck is our slack ass waitress with our fucking drinks!" Gilbert pounded his fist on the sticky table.

"_Bruder,_ keep your voice down!" Ludwig hissed.

The barmaid sauntered over, throwing the glasses on the table, glaring at Gilbert. Ludwig muttered a quick apology, then, turning back to Gilbert added: "I just thought you could be a part of me."

"I _was!_"

"But we could be together…unified. Not split up anymore. I don't want to lose you again, Gil."

"Then you should have left me over there."

"What do you mean by that?"

Gilbert's eyes narrowed. Surely Ludwig wasn't _this_ thick-headed.

He gripped his glass firmly, downing the contents completely, and slammed it back on the table. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, willing himself to collect his thoughts instead of throttling Germany.

"Did you ever wonder," Gilbert began, "what happened to me? After I was dissolved? Did you ever _think_ I might no longer exist!"

Ludwig's mouth dropped open. _Yes,_ he wanted to say. _I thought about it every day, but I never gave up hope._ But Gilbert cut across him again: "If it wasn't for Russia – "

"How can you say that!" Ludwig balked, folding his arms over his chest. He stared past his brother, at the chipping paint on the wall behind Gilbert's head. His brother's defense of that arctic nation wounded him. What could make his brother so loyal to that psychotic bastard after such a short time?

"…Gil, what happened over there?"

"None o' your damn business." Gilbert fished in his pocket for another cigarette.

"…I'm your brother. You can talk to me – "

"Leave it alone, alright?" Gilbert said, lighting the tobacco, fixing Ludwig with a deadly stare.

"This place is suffocating." Gilbert pulled at the collar of his shirt. It was completely soaked with sweat. "We gettin' outta here or what?"

Ludwig's brow furrowed, not missing the sweat beading along his brother's forehead, nor the way his eyes appeared even more sunken. "Are you okay, _bruder_?"

"How many times I gotta tell you," Gilbert said, standing up, "I'm fine!"

He walked exactly two paces then collapsed.

* * *

><p>Ludwig called a cab and managed to get his brother back home. He carried Gilbert up the stairs to his old room. The Prussian was so light, but it wasn't just Gilbert's weight that concerned him – it was the heat radiating from his thin body. Ludwig could feel it through his clothes. Gilbert's fever had gotten worse. He needed to cool his brother off, and fast.<p>

Ludwig peeled back the sheets from the bed, took off Gilbert's boots, and removed the winter coat from his trembling shoulders. The Prussian moaned as the cool air touched his skin, but soon slipped back into unconsciousness. Ludwig settled his brother on the bed, working to remove Gilbert's ratty T-shirt. His arms instinctively stiffened and twisted, like a child's, as Ludwig tried to pull the thing off him.

The German finally succeeded and once he did, he immediately turned away. Not out of modesty. Out of horror. Gilbert's chest and torso were covered in more scars than Ludwig remembered his brother ever having. Hardly an inch of unmarred flesh was visible.

He pulled a thin sheet up to his brother's chest. Gilbert curled himself in it, rolling onto his side.

Ludwig went across the hall to the bathroom and ran a rag under the cold tap. Wringing out the excess water, he brought it back to Gilbert's room and placed it on his brother's burning forehead.

"Oh, Gil," Ludwig whispered, stroking his brother's silvery strands, "you were right. I should have tried harder."

* * *

><p>January, 1990<p>

Ludwig hunched over the kitchen counter, one hand curled around a cup of coffee, the other pressed a bag of ice against his black eye – a gift from his brother two days ago.

_"Oh God, West! I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I didn't mean to…"_

_ "…It's fine…Bruder. You couldn't help it…."_

At the time, Ludwig pretended to believe Gilbert wasn't in his right mind. Reflecting back on it, though, did he really miss that relentless gleam in those crimson eyes? No. He didn't. Gilbert knew what he was doing. He'd always had that "fight" instinct. But it always came with a reason, which was what Ludwig couldn't understand. What had he done to provoke his brother?

He sipped his coffee, trying to puzzle it out.

A few days after Gilbert's collapse at the bar, his fever finally broke. It was right after New Year's, which in itself had been a sad affair. When he wasn't caring for his brother, Ludwig was busy placing calls to the nations wanting to drop by and offer their congratulations on finally getting away from Russia. After a great deal of lying (one thing Ludwig was _not_ comfortable with), he managed to succeed in postponing all the well-wishers. He didn't want them to see his brother like this. His brother would never forgive him if Ludwig let the others – especially France and Spain – see the Awesome Gilbert bed-ridden.

Gilbert's temperature stabilized. He could stand and walk without feeling dizzy, but Ludwig insisted he stay in bed another week. Gilbert was still too thin to be healthy and Ludwig worried about him taking a tumble down the stairs.

"You need to get your strength back, Gil."

"How is me sitting on my ass gonna help me get stronger?"

"You're still not eating enough – "

"C'mon, West! I'm well enough."

"I said 'no!'"

Ludwig bent down to retrieve his brother's dirty laundry strewn across the floor. Gilbert took this as his chance, while the younger nation was distracted, and leapt out of bed. He almost made it to the door before Ludwig stopped him, firm hand all but encasing Gilbert's left arm. Ludwig felt the stringy muscles tense beneath his grip.

"If I have to stay in here _one_ more day, I'm gonna go apeshit!"

"Too. Bad."

Gilbert spun to face his brother, shoulders squaring, head tilted back.

Blue eyes stared back, unyielding.

"…Fine," Gilbert sighed, dropping his shoulders.

Ludwig blinked, releasing Gilbert's arm in astonishment. His brother _actually_ listened to him….

It was the reaction Gilbert had been hoping for. He wrenched open the door, set one foot over the threshold, but was dragged back before he could get any further.

"You're like a stubborn child, you know that?" Ludwig breathed as he tried to wrestle Gilbert back to the bed. "What do I have to do to get you to listen? Lock you in?"

Gilbert stopped struggling, body going limp. Ludwig eased his grip, thinking he'd hurt him. But then Gilbert's back straightened. He drew himself up to his full height and rounded on his brother.

He glared at Ludwig for no more than half a second, but in that briefest of moments, Ludwig saw something flicker again behind those crimson eyes. It was fierce. Determined. Abandoned.

The fist connected just above his left cheekbone, sending Ludwig stumbling back into the wall.

"I'm not gonna be _locked in anywhere!_ You understand me!" Gilbert shrieked. Then, realizing who he'd hit: "Oh God, West! I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I didn't mean to…"

Ludwig's hand jerked, sending coffee sloshing over the side of his mug. _Lock you in._ That's what did it. _Scheisse! How could I be such an idiot? _Gilbert had been a prisoner for three years when he'd found him. And God only knows what Russia had done before that! _Scheisse! Scheisse! Scheisse!_ Those were the wrong words to say. But still, it's not like he meant it. He just wanted Gilbert to listen to him for once….

Ludwig's revelry was broken by Gilbert's entrance.

He shuffled over to the counter, sitting on the stool across from Ludwig.

The taller blonde blinked. After _that _incident, Gilbert had voluntarily shut himself in his room, refusing to answer when Ludwig brought up food.

Gilbert shot furtive glances at his younger brother, legs bobbing up and down on the foot rest. His shoulders were rounded, arms hanging down between his legs. _Like he's folding in on himself,_ Ludwig thought absurdly.

The ice had turned to water. Ludwig tossed the bag in the sink. Gilbert chewed on his lip as his eyes continued their tennis match, flitting from counter to Ludwig.

"…Sorry 'bout that," he said quietly.

"It's not your fault. I shouldn't have said – Gil, have you been up all night?"

Ludwig reached out a hand towards his brother's face. His eyes looked blood-shot and there were definite circles under them.

Gilbert flinched away at the touch.

Ludwig frowned. "Have you been sleeping?"

"Yeah!" Gilbert said, too quick to be honest, then, shrugging, "No. No. Not really."

"You need to rest, _Bruder_."

Gilbert snorted, eyes now locked on the counter, chewing his cracked lip.

Ludwig sighed, standing to get more coffee. _Today is going to be a silent day,_ Ludwig thought. He could already feel the Silence choking out the oxygen in the room. But what could he do? He'd tried talking to Gilbert but it always seemed to blow up in his face. If he asked another nation for help, it might just make things worse. Gilbert would probably _never_ speak to him. Ludwig couldn't bear the thought of losing his brother again. But how much longer was this going to go on?

_No. _Ludwig shook his head. _Stop being selfish. All you can do is be there for him._

Gilbert seemed to be giving the counter top a thorough study as Ludwig sat back down. A spot of red flashed against his pale mouth.

"_Bruder,_ your lip is bleeding," Ludwig said softly.

"Huh?" Gilbert jerked his head up, eyes catching on the black circle marring Ludwig's face, then falling back down.

Ludwig eyed his brother for a moment. Gilbert would not look back at him. He sat, biting his lip, lost in his head.

Ludwig turned back to his coffee, staring into the inky liquid. The only sound cutting through the heavy air was the shuffling of fabric as Gilbert's knees continued to bob up and down.

"…How did it happen, West?"

Ludwig flinched. His brother's voice grated in the silence.

"How did what happen?"

"The Wall."

"…I guess you could say it started with Russia and his boss…"

Gilbert's head jerked up at this.

"His boss introduced new policies for economic reform and one included an opportunity for citizens to voice their discontent with Soviet government. People began protesting. Then travel restrictions eased up and on November 9th, the border opened for 'private trips abroad.' After that, people started taking chisels to it." Ludwig paused to sip from his coffee. "I waited for you, that night. And the following day. But you never came. I _knew_ something was wrong, Gil. I _knew _there was something keeping you from me. Then Lithuania phoned and told me where you were. Told me you had been caught buying forged papers so you could cross."

Ludwig took another sip from his mug, studying his brother over the rim. Gilbert's knees had finally stopped shaking and he no longer gnawed his bloody lip. He held Ludwig's gaze, but the look in Gilbert's eyes seemed so distant.

"…I don't believe you," Gilbert said.

"What?" Ludwig nearly dropped his coffee mug.

"Russia would _never_ – "

_Each day brings something new. _

_New bosses. _

_New principles…._

The sing-song voice laughed in his head. Gilbert squeezed his eyes shut, clamping both hands over his ears, head shaking back and forth as if that would stop the endless chant.

"No! I don't believe you!"

_New bosses. New principles._

"He wouldn't! He wouldn't abandon me!"

_ I need you, East._

"Gil, look at me." Ludwig stood, placing a hand on his brother's shoulder.

Gilbert continued to shake his head, hands clawing his ears.

Tears pricked the corners of Ludwig's eyes. He couldn't stand seeing his brother like this.

"…Gil." Ludwig swallowed thickly, pulling Gilbert's hands away. "…Have you seen, _Bruder,_ really _seen_ what he did to you?"

Gilbert's eyes shot open as he twisted his arms in vain attempts to break free from his brother. "No! He didn't do it! It was me! All me. I deserved it. I was stubborn. I wouldn't listen! He needed me and I left him! He _saved_ me and I left him!"

The force of those words was like getting punched in the chest. Ludwig slumped back onto his kitchen stool. Bits of the puzzle were falling into place, but huge chunks were still missing. Namely, what _had_ Russia done to his brother? The physical scars were evident, but the mental ones, Ludwig couldn't begin to fathom.

"That's what he _made_ you believe, Gil," he whispered.

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN** Thank you all for being so patient with me while I've been updating this story! Thank you for reading and keeping up with it...it really does mean a lot to me!_

_I was driving home from visiting my parents a few weekends ago and Berlin's song "Metro" was on the radio. The melody made me think of this chapter and about the fall of the Wall in general. For the first six years of my life, East Germany **was** a country. Sometimes it seems almost odd not to think of it as still existing –I guess you could argue it still does, not as a country but as a region. It reminds me of America during the Civil War. Back then, the country was very much divided between North and South. We were two separate countries, CSA and USA, until the end of the war and reconstruction. Even now, the North and the South are still two distinct regions. In America, there are Southerners who still wish for the return of the Confederacy (this, as someone who has lived her whole life in the South and is a proud Southerner, disgusts me. I duck my head in shame every time I hear the phrase "The South will rise again," but I'm starting to ramble). Some folks still wish for the way things used to be, yearning for some glory or nostalgia of the old days…and it honestly floored me to read some older East Germans wish the Wall was still up. Living in the land where capitalist democracy is king, we're brought up to think anything else is wrong – look at how much the people suffer, they don't have the same freedoms you take for granted, imagine living in a country where you can't speak your mind or publish an article because you'll be imprisoned for it, etc., etc. So how could anyone want to return to that?_


	14. Chapter 14

It was like waking up in the middle of a dream. He could think of no other way to describe it. That desperate, confused feeling as he struggled to make sense of his waking world. That horrible lurch in the pit of his stomach when he realized the world he had known for forty-some years no longer existed.

He hadn't needed Ludwig to tell him because he knew, didn't he? That was the plan all along, wasn't it? That was why he sought out a way across the Wall. (Or maybe it was a test, to see if he was still Russia's pet.)

Gilbert flinched at that thought. Oh, he _hated_ that violet-eyed bastard. He hated what Russia did to him. He hated what Russia had him do to his people. And yet….

And yet, part of him could not blame Russia. Part of him _missed_ the constant presence, and – _Gott, _sick as it was – he _missed_ the eager smile and brightening eyes whenever Gilbert did something good. (Whenever he obeyed. Like a dog. Russia's wolf-hound.)

Gilbert stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray by his bed. _Yes, it was a colossal mind-fuck._

The hall clock struck half past eight.

It was the sound he'd been waiting for. Slowly, he pushed himself up, ears straining against the thick silence, listening for _any_ indication his brother might be home. There was none, of course. Ludwig was still in meetings, like he had been for the past couple of weeks.

Ludwig was busy deciding what sections of the Wall should come down next.

Ludwig was _busy_ trying to make sure the two governments could stabilize.

_Ludwig _was _busy_ ensuring the people in the East – _his _people! – would acclimate to western culture.

_Ludwig_ was _too busy_ to be bothered with _Gilbert._ And that suited Gilbert just fine, thank you very much. He didn't much feel like being bothered by Ludwig, either. All Ludwig wanted to do was talk. About Russia. About the Wall. About how Gilbert really needed to attend the meetings, too. Talk and talk and talk…and _help._ _That_ word Gilbert hated the most. _Ludwig_ wanted to _help_ him. Gilbert scoffed. He didn't _need _help. He was perfectly fine. Anyone could see that. Well, they would if he accepted visitors. But Gilbert refused to see anyone after France and Spain stopped by at the end of January, because even _they_ had the same _look_ in their eyes. The same one Ludwig wore when he looked at his brother. _Poor, pitiful Gilbert. He must have been through so much. What can we do for him? _It disgusted him. It was an ever present reminder of the things he so longed to forget – his time with Russia, his failing nationhood.

Gilbert stretched his arms, elbows cracking as they lengthened. He had been pretending to sleep, although he knew he didn't need to now that Ludwig had his meetings to keep him occupied. It used to last the entire day (before Ludwig was gone from sun-up to sun-down), feigning sleep, waiting for his brother to leave on some errand or go to bed. And, oh, he _was_ good at this game. Russia was blessed with an endless amount of patience and so, therefore, was Gilbert. He'd spent the past four decades waiting – waiting to be fed, waiting to be let out of that pink room, waiting for a prisoner to confess their sins against Mother GDR. All of this _waiting_ ultimately held one goal: to see West again. But yet, now that he was _here_, now that he was back with his brother again, the only thing left to wait for was the inevitable end. He was sure of it. Germany hadn't needed his protection for quite some time, and the only reason he lasted past the war was because Russia wanted him. His services, whether used for military strength or as Russia's buffer zone, were no longer required.

Gilbert pulled on his boots. His room was pitch black save for a pool of white moonlight spilling in through his window. He liked it this way. He felt like he was a part of the night. Night was quiet. Night let him do what he pleased. He was a shadow, blending in with the rest and moving about freely, not caught in the microscope-glare of the sun (or his brother's ever scrutinizing gaze). Most importantly, night was the only time his mind would shut off. It gave him peace, even though he was loathe to admit it came at the bottom of a brown bottle.

He'd spent the better part of two months like that – out almost every night, usually at bar – until he was too stone drunk to see straight. But that suited him just fine. He didn't like going home sober enough to see West's worried face. Or hear West's anxious voice. _Always_ questioning. Question after question after question about Gilbert's time spent on the other side. He was sick of it! He preferred the alcohol induced buzzing between his ears to his brother's voice.

_Whatever keeps your mind off your eventual demise…._

He smirked to himself as he reached the bottom of the stairs. He could almost _taste_ it….

"Where are you going?" Germany called out from behind his newspaper.

_Scheisse_. Gilbert hadn't seen the dull amber lamp glow or his brother sitting in the living room. Still, that didn't stop him reaching for his coat on the hook.

He casually flung it over one shoulder as he faced his brother. Lifting his chin in the air, Gilbert answered: "Out."

Ludwig eyed Gilbert, his mouth set in a thin line. "You mean to a bar."

Gilbert's own eyes narrowed. He made to protest but Ludwig cut him off. "C'mon, Gil. I do your laundry. I can smell it in your clothes."

"Fine," Gilbert spat. "I'm going to a bar. I'm going to a _bar_! I'm going to get _drunk_ at a _bar_ so I don't have to see your stupid face!"

Ludwig dropped his gaze. _Bullseye_. Gilbert smiled, putting on his coat.

"…I wish you wouldn't," Ludwig whispered.

Gilbert snorted in response.

"The money I leave for you is for food and…and for whatever essentials you need. Not so you can blow it on alcohol."

Gilbert's face cracked into a slanted grin. "Booze _is_ essential, West."

"That's not what I meant. I'm asking you, please, stay in tonight. There's another meeting tomorrow and I want you to come. I want you to be with me – "

"So put a padlock on my goddamn door!" Gilbert hissed. "If you want me to follow you around, tie a leash to my neck! You won, West, okay? I get it. You're the stronger one. It's not me anymore. You won. Fine. Whatever! But don't you fucking _patronize_ me by dragging me to those meetings when you know damn well I have no say anymore. I didn't ask you to come for me!"

Ludwig let his brother rage, uninterrupted. He knew that's what Gilbert needed. It was his brother's nature. But the last part infuriated him. _How dare he? How _dare_ he! _

Ludwig was on his feet, hands balled into fists to keep from shaking. "You were caught buying fake papers! You wanted to get away! And you act like it's _my_ fault for going to look for you when the borders opened. Because I was worried! I care about you, Gil – "

"Bullshit! You wanted me gone since '32. Russia was right – "

"What are you talking about!"

"Altona! When my government was dissolved! And let's not forget Königsberg…"

"That was a long time ago, Gil," Ludwig interjected, face reddening. "I wasn't in my right mind then – "

"…and then there was Law 46," Gilbert continued, ignoring his brother. "And now this! My country's being taken, again! Can't you understand why I'm less than excited to be here?"

"…So," Ludwig began, fighting to keep his voice steady, "I should have left you over there? Alone? In that cell…?"

"…Yes," Gilbert said._ Then I could have died in my country._

Ludwig blinked. Not at _what_ Gilbert said, but the _way _he said it.

Defeated.

The fire and storm were gone from Gilbert's eyes. The rage that animated his body suddenly flew away, leaving him sunken. The proud knight stood before Ludwig defeated.

"We said 'goodbye' in '45, _Bruder_, even though I stupidly held onto to some _hope_ I would see you soon. But the years kept passing without a word – "

"I _tried_, Gil. I promise I – "

"I know you did, West. Really. I do. But…I…."

Did he really hate his brother? No. He'd forgiven West. Really, he had. He'd never been able to stay angry with his brother deep down. It was all surface anger, meant to intimidate while masking his true feelings. It was easier, _so_ much easier, to scream and shut Ludwig out than to confess his fears to his baby brother.

_Saying it makes it true._

"What? Gil, what _is_ it?"

Ludwig's forehead creased as his eyebrows began their upwards angle, and oh, God, that _look! _That pitying look crept into his brother's eyes. Something jagged and heavy sank below Gilbert's navel. He had to leave. Now. He was going to be sick if he stayed any longer.

"I…I can't. Just…I just need to go. I _need _to, West."

Gilbert's hand twisted the doorknob. Ludwig knew he needed to act quickly, but his mouth failed to respond for all the thoughts running through his head.

Gilbert turned, pulling the door open. Ludwig's brain engaged, seeing his brother about to walk out. He reached for his brother's shoulder, stammering out a simple plea: "…Stay, Gil, please…."

Gilbert looked back at his brother, and, shaking his head, stepped out into the night, Ludwig's fingers brushing his coat sleeve as he shut the door.

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN** Uuuummm, what to say? This chapter depressed me the most to write, I think. Note to self: read fluffy fics to make happy again! I'm sort of marching around the idea Gilbert's turned to alcohol as a way to cope (and the fact he's pretty much given up.)_

_Brief history nugget: The Free State of Prussia's government was unseated in July, 1932 by Reich Chancellor Franz von Papen, saying it had lost control of public order after a shootout occurred between Sturmabteilung demonstrators and communists in Altona, Hamburg._


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N**_ Yeah, so, after that last one, I cried a little, had some wine, and started work on this one. This is probably the longest chapter I've written for this story. It's a little bit more light-hearted, but meh, it's till got angst (sorry!) Insightful?Romano makes an appearance, giving Ludwig some desperately needed advice regarding Gilbert. _

_History/language/head canon stuff:_

"_Che cavolo" = the Italian version of WTF!_

_Gilbert's memory/flashback is set after the Austro-Prussian (Seven Weeks' War), when Prussia gained hegemony over Germany and started whipping him into shape. (In my head, I pictured Ludwig as a chubby kid during his time with Austria)_

_In my head, Germania abandoned little Gilbert early on, so he's got some "father-figure" issues_

_(Most of this was inspired by an article I came across in the journal The Proceedings of the American Philosophical Society entitled "The End of Prussia" by Gordon Craig.) So, um, yeah…I think that's everything. Thanks for reading…and without further ado, here's Chapter 15. Enjoy!_

* * *

><p>March, 1990<p>

"Where are you going?"

"You really asking me again?"

"Yes."

"Out, West. I'm going out."

"Bar?"

"Of course," Gilbert sighed, exasperated.

"You want some dinner first?"

"No, West. I'm okay."

"You sure?" Ludwig asked, one eyebrow quirked skeptically as he eyed his brother's thin frame.

"_Ja, Bruder_. I'm sure."

Gilbert snatched his jacket off the coat hook and was gone with a loud snap of the latch.

Ludwig glanced at his watch. It was just after six. He sighed and went into the kitchen to re-heat last night's leftovers. The plate he left for Gilbert, he noted, had barely been touched.

His brother's trips "out" seemed to be happening earlier, with Gilbert getting home later each night.

_He just needs time,_ Ludwig thought.

_Yes, but how much "time" do you plan to give him?_ a darker voice asked.

He gritted his teeth. He hated having these thoughts about his own brother. He reminded himself he needed to be patient with Gilbert. But, even before the war, the words "patience" and "Gilbert" could hardly be used in the same sentence.

Ludwig unwrapped the cellophane from the plate of spätzle and placed the dish in the microwave. Two weeks ago, when he'd gotten his phone bill, he noticed a long distance call had been placed. To Russia's house. The charges were minimal. The call hadn't lasted long, but it coincided with the beginning of Gilbert's earlier departures for the bar. Ludwig all but kicked himself for not confronting his brother right then and finding out what was going on. He thought if he did, Gilbert would shut down again. As he ate his dinner, Ludwig had to admit the fact that his brother now deigned to _tell_ him he was going to the bar was something of a breakthrough.

He put his dishes in the sink when he was done, not bothering to rinse them – an indication of just how distracted his mind had been lately.

_No. Not distracted,_ he thought as he stared at the plate. _Ransacked. _Someone had gone through his neatly packaged and labeled head, torn open the boxes, and scattered the contents everywhere. _Someone with white hair._ Everything revolved around Gilbert. Even when he was trying to distance himself. And why not? His brother seemed to like it that way.

But Ludwig still worried regardless.

He decided to wash the dishes. To clear his head.

As he turned on the tap, a knock came from the front door. Thinking (hoping) it was Gilbert, he shut off the water and made his way to the front hall.

The person knocked again and Ludwig realized it couldn't be Gilbert. His brother never knocked, preferring instead to barge right on in. _Unless he's forgotten his key,_ Ludwig thought. But even in that instance, Gilbert's pounding would threaten to break the door into splinters. _Well, yes, but that was the _old_ Gilbert,_ Ludwig amended.

He opened the door, half expecting to see a shock of white hair instead of what greeted him.

"…Romano?"

"About damn time! I'm freezing my ass off out here!" the Italian grumbled, pushing his way past Ludwig while stomping his feet and rubbing his arms for effect.

"It's not _that_ cold – "

"Maybe not to you, kraut-breath."

Ludwig bristled at the jibe. "If you're looking for Veneziano, he's not here."

"I'm not looking for my brother. I'm looking for yours."

"My…?"

"Gilbert, you idiot! I heard he was back. Thanks for not telling me, by the way. I had to find out from that damn taco-eater, Spain!"

"I told Veneziano – "

"Oh, yeah. Of course. Tell my little brother but not me. You know as much as I do his head is as empty as his bank account!"

"Well you just missed Gilbert," Ludwig said, scratching the back of his neck nervously. He was reasonably uptight around Veneziano. As for Romano, Ludwig quite frankly feared for his own safety. _This_ Italian was too volatile and Ludwig simply did _not_ want him in his home.

"Where the hell did he go?" Romano asked, going into the living room as if he expected Gilbert to be sitting on the couch.

"To a bar."

"What!"

"…To a bar?" Ludwig repeated, fixing the Italian with a strange look. He was quite certain he spoke clearly the first time….

"Oh great! He goes out drinking and doesn't have the courtesy to invite _me!_" Romano flung himself onto the couch, folding his arms. "And you!" he said, turning on Ludwig. "You could have at least called to tell me he wasn't here."

"I – what – but – y-you came over unannounced!"

"Drive my ass all the way up here…stand on your freezing porch…and he isn't even home! Typical Germans. So inconsiderate."

"You _barged_ into _my_ home uninvited!"

"And what am I supposed to do about dinner, huh?" Romano said, waving Ludwig off. "I'm starving. You gonna offer me any food or what?"

Ludwig rubbed his hand over his face. These damn Italians were so hard to get rid of. He knew what he had to do. He just didn't like it.

"Would you like something to eat?" Ludwig ground out.

"Yeah, but I don't want any of your nasty potatoes. Or that cabbage crap. It smells like vomit."

"I've got leftover spätzle in the fridge," Ludwig muttered.

"What the hell is that?"

"It's, uh, like a pasta. Veneziano used to like it."

Romano rolled his eyes. "Oh and I guess because _one_ Italy likes it, the other must too, right? I hate how everyone assumes we're the same – "

"Do you want the damn spätzle or not!"

"Yeah, fine, whatever. I'll eat your stupid noodles."

* * *

><p><em>The Roman Empire still exists, right? <em>

_**Stop it.**_

_I mean, he visited Italy that one time._

_**Stop it!**_

_West said so…_

_**STOP IT!**_

Gilbert rubbed a hand over his face, eyeing the empty beer bottles in front of him. This wasn't working. No matter how much he drank, he could not drown out the voices. They were his own, of course – his own way of trying to rationalize his fear – but that seemed to make them all the more worse.

_...he was a fucking _empire**, **_just like I was. Am. Was. Even though he's got no land, he _exists. _As an idea._

…**_but where does he go? And what about…_him? _What about Germania…our father?_**

…_people still talk about him and he exists. So…._

_**So?**_

_So…if I'm still remembered I must still exist…_

He closed his eyes for a moment to clear his head.

"_How much farther?"_

"_Just to the clearing."_

"_You said that an hour ago!"_

"_I did not."_

"_But, Bruder, I'm _tired_!"_

"_We haven't been walking that far, Ludwig. You can see it through the trees there."_

_Ludwig craned his neck around the wall of his brother's back. All he could see was more forest. He groaned his disapproval._

_Gilbert heard it over the rustle and crunch of the fallen leaves they waded through. He was trying to be patient. Really, he was. But that little brat's grunt set him off. He spun to face his brother, red eyes burning. They fell on the sword little Ludwig dragged behind him._

"_What the hell are you doing? Pick that up, Ludwig!"_

"_But, Bruder, it's too heavy!" Ludwig whined. His pudgy arms heaved the weapon in front of him, making him stumble back. Ludwig's ears reddened in embarrassment. He scowled back at Gilbert. "See?" he spat. "Too heavy."_

_Gilbert bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing at his brother's display. The sword weighed maybe five pounds, if that. _

"_You just don't want to carry it." Gilbert said._

_Ludwig dropped the offending sword on the ground and folded his arms._

_Gilbert frowned at the metal blade glinting in the late autumn light. He'd forgotten Ludwig spent the first half of his life with Austria. Stupid Austria. Taking his baby brother away from him after their father abandoned them. Stupid Austria, saying Gilbert was "unfit" to raise Ludwig…._

_Austria had made his brother _soft – _never letting Ludwig outside to play, feeding him cake and pastries all day, having servants wait on him…._

_Gilbert raked a hand through his hair. This wasn't about the sword. It was about discipline. Ludwig needed to be taught to follow orders. To do things for himself. To fight. To not complain because he found something difficult._

"_Pick it up!" Gilbert pointed a leather-gloved finger sharply at the blade._

_Ludwig stamped his foot and shook his head, lips pursed together in a pout._

_Gilbert's patience was on the verge of snapping. He thought about just leaving the kid there, in the forest. Or he could take him back to Austria…._

_Oh, sure, the stupid aristocrat would _love_ that, Gilbert thought. 'Gilbert, you're so pathetic. I knew you couldn't even manage a task as simple as looking after a child,' Austria would gloat._

_Gilbert sighed. Time for a new tactic._

_He sank to one knee so he was now eye-level with Ludwig. "Bruder, look at me."_

_Ludwig's eyes lifted beneath his lowered brow._

"_I know it's difficult. The first time always is. But I _promise_ you, the second time you pick up that sword, it won't feel as heavy. And the third time will be even lighter. Do you know why?"_

_Ludwig shook his head._

"_Because you're building your strength. And you're pushing out that voice in your head that says 'can't.' And once you no longer listen to that voice, you'll be as awesome as me….Well, almost." Gilbert grinned, giving Ludwig's belly a gentle poke. The boy giggled and playfully swatted away his brother's hand._

_The stubborn pout melted from Ludwig's face as he bent down to retrieve the sword. He lifted it up this time, holding it before him._

"_That's more like it," Gilbert said, ruffling Ludwig's straw colored hair. "Never, _ever_ show weakness, Bruder. You understand? Ever."_

_Never show weakness._

Gilbert's eyes shot open. He was certain someone had yelled that in his ear. The dimly lit tavern swam into view. From his sideways angle, he could tell he passed out at some point on the bar. The polished wood felt sticky beneath his head. An empty glass stein stood in front of him, the last remnants of beer clinging to the sides. He felt eyes on him, watching him. Keeping his own eyes open was proving difficult. Every time he blinked, the room spun 360 degrees.

Slowly, he rolled his eyes up to see who stood over him. Just the bartender. White rag in one hand, beer glass in another. Gilbert caught the man give the slightest shake of his head as he wiped down the beer glass. Or maybe it was Gilbert's own unbalanced equilibrium playing tricks on him.

Gilbert's eyes fell back down to the bar, back down to the empty stein in front of him. Through the glass, he fancied he saw a familiar head of long blonde hair seated at the end of the bar.

The blonde turned towards him and even in the dim light Gilbert could see those piercing blue eyes that were so much like his brother's.

It can't be him! There's no fucking way it could be _him_. Centuries without a word and _now_ he decides to show up at this very bar! It can't be him. Gilbert squinted his unfocused eyes, studying the man.

The blonde turned back to his beer, drained the contents of the bottle, and slapped a few notes on the bar. Gilbert watched through his glass as the distorted figure left the bar. _It isn't him,_ Gilbert decided. _ I would know. It isn't him._

He shut his eyes and the room spun around him once more.

_Never show weakness. _The last words Germania ever said to Gilbert, and he had taken them to heart throughout the years, hadn't he? Except for now. His vices, fueled by his own bitterness, were consuming him.

"Hey!" someone above him shouted.

Gilbert slowly opened his eyes again. The room was a weight pressing on his head.

How many had he had?

"Hey!" the voice said again, barely audible over the din in his ears.

Gilbert's eyes rolled up again. It was the bartender. He mouthed something down at Gilbert, but the ex-nation couldn't make out what the man said. His eyes rolled down again.

_Oh God, this has got to stop._

Gilbert focused on the empty glass in front of him. It seemed to still the room's spinning. He peeled his cheek off the sticky bar and brought it up to meet the bartender's gaze. The man glowered down at Gilbert. The ex-nation knew what was coming. He knew he deserved it even. But he would not let this mere mortal have the pleasure of uttering _those_ final words to him. _He_ had to do it. He had to overcome it.

"I'm…cut off," he hiccupped with a lopsided grin.

"Damn right you are!"

"Damn…right!" Gilbert echoed, swaying on his bar stool.

"I can call you a cab…or you can sit there 'til you sober up some." The bartender cocked his eyebrow sarcastically.

"No cab. I walk. But hey! Hey…have you gotta cuppa coffee?"

"…Yeah, but I doubt it'll help you – "

"I don' care! I jus' really want some coffee! Black. No sugar."

The bar tender shrugged his shoulders and started to walk off.

"Oh, but hey!" Gilbert called. "Hey! This…is for my tab." He produced a wrinkled hundred-mark note from his pocket and pushed it into the bartender's hand. "And this…is for any trouble I caused." He pushed another wrinkled hundred into the man's hand. "I know it's not enough. Nowhere near enough. I've done so many horrible things and I'm sorry. I really am! You gotta know that. We all think we know our limits, right? There's stuff we just won' do, right? We like to think that…but how do you know? _How_…do you know…until you're faced with it, you know?"

During the outpouring of this speech, the bartender's brow steadily knit itself together in confusion. Between the crumpled two-hundred Marks he currently held and the odd, semi-confession this man had given him, he didn't know _what_ to think. He'd heard drunk-talk before, but this strange white-haired man definitely won the prize.

The bartender thought the white-haired man was done proselytizing and turned to fetch the man's coffee, but Gilbert caught his attention by holding up his hands, palms facing up, almost like a scale.

"You gotta choose: existence," Gilbert said, raising one hand higher, "or not. Existence. Or not. And you wouldn't think…but sometimes you have to do things…under the circumstances. And…but…how do I tell West that? You know?"

The bartender nodded once, unsure of what to do or say. "Well, I'll just get your coffee," he mumbled, taking one step back.

"Coffee? I don't need any coffee. I'm good. Oh, hey! And this is for you. Consider it a tip." Gilbert slid off his bar stool and pressed a fifty into the man's hand before weaving his way out of the bar.

The bartender watched him go, dumbfounded and still holding the entirety of Gilbert's monthly allotment.

* * *

><p>"Thanks for the funky noodles. They weren't all that disgusting."<p>

"Considering you cleaned your plate in five minutes…" Ludwig muttered.

Romano put the plate in the sink then sat back down at the kitchen counter. "Well?"

"Well what?" Ludwig snapped.

"After dinner coffee!"

_Mein Gott! He's a piece of work, _Ludwig thought as he stalked over to the coffee maker and grabbed the pot.

Romano watched as Ludwig filled it with water and set the filter. The German measured out four perfectly even scoops of coffee and set it to brew. He then turned his attention to the sink and the dishes waiting to be washed. He hoped by ignoring the Italian, the other would want to leave sooner. Luck was apparently not on his side tonight. Romano seemed to be gaining some weird pleasure out of pestering him and insisted on talking.

"So why aren't you out with Gilbert, huh? I figured the two of you would be painting the town red or – shit…sorry! Bad choice of words. I mean, um, why aren't you celebrating? Had enough already?"

Ludwig's back went rigid. He could feel the Italian's eyes boring a hole right through him. Ludwig's voice was low, deadly, as he answered: "I don't want to discuss it."

"What? Afraid you can't keep up?" Romano laughed.

"No!" Ludwig spun around, icy eyes flashing. He gripped a soapy plate so tightly he could break it.

The smirk fell from Romano's face. "What is it then?"

"I just said I don't want to discuss it," Ludwig growled.

"That seems to be working out well for you," the Italian said drily.

Ludwig clenched his jaw and turned back to the sink.

Romano got up and began rummaging through Ludwig's cabinets. The German flinched. An uninvited guest was bad enough, but one who went through his things was intolerable. _If only he _weren't_ Veneziano's brother…._

"What are you doing now?"

"Coffee's done. I need a mug."

"Above the coffeemaker," Ludwig said.

Romano poured himself a cup then resumed his seat at the counter. "So you guys going to share this place or what?"

"Why are you asking?"

"So I know where to find Gilbert next time, obviously."

"I assume so. We're in the process of re-unifying, so I don't see why not."

"You _assume_? You don't actually know? _Che cavolo!_ Don't you think you should figure that out? When Veneziano and I unified, I had all kinds of crazy thoughts going through my head. I was insanely jealous of him for years. Of course _he_ was the more popular one. The more 'cultured' one. He has the art, the beauty, better wine. And what do I get, huh? Infamy in the form of mob bosses and endless work in farm fields. I thought for sure I would be torn apart by faction fighting or worked to death to feed _his _endless appetite…that I would just fade away, forgotten in favor of Firenze, Genoa, Tuscany – everything that makes up my treasured little brother."

Romano paused to take a sip from his mug. A faraway look haunted his eyes. A twinge of pity twisted in Ludwig's gut. In all the years he'd know this obnoxious Italian, tonight was the first night he'd seen the _real_ Romano and the raw passion bubbling beneath his cold swagger.

"Has Prussia been going out a lot lately?" Romano asked suddenly.

"Yes. But he's not 'Prussia' anymore – "

"Yes he is." This time, it was Romano's voice suffused with danger. His eyes flicked up, matching Ludwig's piercing gaze with his own. "Don't you see? You can't deny him of that. If you do, you deny his very existence. My farmland and my Mafia may not bring the tourists, but they're still very much a part of me and I would fight tooth and nail to keep it. Prussia's pride is in his name, his history. He's watched his lands shrink until all he had left was that tiny eastern corner. And now that you're unifying, he probably thinks there's nothing left for him. I felt the same way until I realized just how much Veneziano depends on me. You two are the same way. You wouldn't be who you are today without Prussia. You _have_ to keep the name and respect the history."

Romano finished the last of his coffee. "Well, it's late, and I'll be damned if I'm sleeping here tonight. Tell your brother I stopped by."

Ludwig escorted Romano to the door. He held out a hand. Romano stared at it warily for a moment before taking it. What passed between them that night in no way put them on amicable terms, but if Ludwig was willing to concede for a moment, he supposed he should too.

"Thank you," Ludwig said.

"…Yeah, sure. No problem. Just call me next time you need some perspective, huh?"

Ludwig watched Romano drive off then went into the kitchen and poured himself the remains of the coffee. He added the pot to the soapy dishwater and sat at the counter, thinking about what Romano had said. The Italian was able to look at their situation as both an outsider and as someone who had experienced this uncertainty before. Ludwig hated to admit he was somewhat envious of how clearly Romano saw things, and how much more Romano knew about Gilbert. Ludwig realized he'd been approaching it the wrong way. He assumed the cause of Gilbert's behavior was Russia when it was actually _him_. He only wanted him back home, to know he was alive. But he never wanted Gilbert gone. He _still_ looked up to his older brother. Ludwig never forgot the endless training Gilbert put him through after he left Austria's house or that his brother was _always_ willing to help him. Through countless battles, Gilbert had _always_ been there for him. He owed everything – from his meticulous knowledge about field-stripping and cleaning his firearm to his progress towards democracy – to Gilbert, to Prussia.


	16. Chapter 16

Ludwig rummaged through the piles of boxes in his basement. Romano's visit, despite its awkwardness, gave him much needed clarity where Gilbert was concerned. How could he have been so blind? After decades spent together, he thought he had some insight as to how his brother's mind worked. But minds were not books. They could not simply be picked up, opened, examined and understood. Minds followed no logical order – excepting Ludwig's, of course. And that was his first mistake. He fell into that old trap that logical minds often fall victim to: not seeing the forest for the trees. Gilbert's problem wasn't Russia or his re-adjustment to Western culture. It was larger, so much larger than all that. What happens to ex-nations? The solution was so simple it was almost laughable. It was _why_ Ludwig hadn't seen what had been bothering his brother.

What happens to ex-nations?

Nothing.

Nothing would happen to Gilbert. As long as Ludwig breathed, his brother would be by side his. They would be together until the world ended. Just like the two Italies. He just assumed Gilbert already knew.

But Gilbert's mind did not work like that. When it fixed on an idea, it never changed, not until Gilbert had physical proof. Ludwig could shout all he wanted, but Gilbert would never listen. He had to be shown. And Ludwig had the perfect thing – if only he could find it….

There! Halfway through the stack was a box labeled "Arts Events 1980-1985." It _must_ be in this one….

And it was.

Ludwig smiled as he plucked the program from the mass of papers surrounding it. _This_ was exactly the reason why he kept _everything – _one never knew when an old museum program might come in handy, especially for saving a particularly stubborn Prussian.

Ludwig brought it upstairs, made a fresh pot of coffee, and perused the program, remembering that exhibition and wishing so badly his brother could have seen it.

* * *

><p>Gilbert's feet traced a familiar path, though it was one he hadn't walked in over forty years. He'd been consciously avoiding it, but now he felt compelled to go back to <em>that<em> place.

The place that, for him, was the beginning of the end.

He stopped going to mass sometime during the 16th century, when Calvinism began to take hold, but the Catholic beliefs of the Teutonic Order were too deeply ingrained. It was too late at night – or was it too early in the morning? – for a priest to hear his confession. But it would at least be a quiet place for him to collect his final thoughts.

As he rounded a corner, the façade of St. Hedwig's leered at him across _platz, _the streetlights casting sharp shadows on the new dome. A lighted face. A silent sentinel welcoming him back.

The church was locked up tight at this hour, but no matter. Gilbert didn't feel much like going in any way. He simply felt he _needed_ to be here in its presence.

He sat on the steps leading into the nave, drawing his knees under his chin. When he was younger, he loved hearing the church bells calling the devout to mass. The bells, each with their own sound, their own voice, building and echoing across the land in familiar song. Voices growing, filling him with pride, until they became one.

One voice. One land. One people.

He loved listening to those bells. Each resonant clang was renewal, was assurance that all the conquests were not just for shameless glory.

* * *

><p>The hall clock struck half past two and still no sign of Gilbert. No one had even called Ludwig asking him to retrieve his brother at such-and-such bar. No matter. He'd stayed awake before until well after three a.m. waiting, listening in the dark, for his brother to return.<p>

Any moment now, he'd hear the familiar scrape of a key in a lock, the heavy footfalls as his brother trudged up the stairs, the flop and groan of relief as his body hit the mattress. Ludwig could never get to sleep without these sounds – reassurances of his brother's safe arrival home. Any moment.

The hall clock dully ticked away the seconds.

Ludwig's face rippled across the black surface as he stared into his coffee mug, the contents of which, by now, had turned cold.

Another tick.

Where could Gilbert be?

Ludwig stifled a yawn.

Any moment now….

He tapped his fingers against the side of his mug in time with the clock.

Another tick.

Ludwig was growing tired of waiting….

A soft padding of feet against bare wood and Ludwig nearly knocked over his mug in blind hope. But it was only his Weimaraner, Cleo. She padded over to him, resting her head on his knee and gazing up at him with those doleful blue eyes that were so much like his own. Sighing, Ludwig bent down to scratch her behind her ear when an idea struck him. He bolted up, slid off the kitchen stool and dashed upstairs, returning momentarily with one of Gilbert's socks and Cleo's leash.

* * *

><p>The dog traced a winding path through the city streets. For a moment, Ludwig began to doubt her tracking capabilities; that is until she came to a familiar tree-lined boulevard. Cleo's gait was set, determined. She no longer shifted her head left and right looking for a scent. She'd found it. A straight path leading ever onwards until she reached the Bebelplatz, taking a sharp right past the opera house and heading for the church tucked out of view.<p>

Cleo's pace slowed the closer she got to St. Hedwig's before halting meters from the steps.

A figure, illuminated by the yellow streetlamps, huddled in the entrance.

Cleo looked up at her master, then back the figure. And Ludwig knew. It was Gilbert.

He coaxed Cleo forward. She obeyed hesitantly, offering a tiny whine as if to say she didn't think this was a good idea.

Gilbert's head jerked up at the approaching figures. He didn't need to ask who it was, and all he could think was _West, you idiot._

"Found me again, huh?"

"Yes. But not without help." Ludwig motioned to the dog trotting at his side.

Gilbert visibly recoiled as the dog approached the church steps. Just because she was West's didn't mean he had to like her.

Sensing Gilbert's disinclination, Cleo sat at the bottom step, allowing Ludwig to approach and talk to his brother alone.

Ludwig settled beside his brother, leaning his back against the church door. For a while, neither one spoke until Gilbert turned his head away, as if preferring to speak to the wall. "Why are you here, West?"

"To bring you home."

Gilbert snorted. "What makes you think I'm coming home?"

"Why wouldn't you?"

Gilbert's neck snapped back around, eyes narrowing to slits. "Because it's ending, isn't it? This is it for me."

"No, it's not," Ludwig said evenly.

"And what makes you so sure?" Gilbert scoffed.

Ludwig raked a hand through his hair. He could feel the rage building in his brother and he needed to dispel it fast. Remembering the events that transpired earlier that night, Ludwig took a deep breath and began talking.

"Romano stopped by for a visit tonight."

"Oh yeah? What did he want?" Gilbert grumbled.

"At first, I thought it was just to insult me," Ludwig said, earning him a rare puff of laughter from Gilbert. "But actually he was looking for you."

"Another well-wisher, no doubt," Gilbert spat.

"Yes, there was that. But when he found out you weren't there, he stuck around for dinner, and then…we talked. Well, _he _talked. I just listened."

"Interesting. Does this story have a point?" Gilbert asked, lighting a cigarette.

"The point_ is_," Ludwig cried, exasperated by his brother's mood, "is that I realized many things after that! I've been blind, _Bruder_. I thought you were only avoiding talking to me because of…things…that might have happened over there. I never once thought you were afraid of…of disappearing."

Gilbert tensed at Ludwig's allusion to Russia, making a motion to stand, but Ludwig grabbed his hand, keeping him rooted.

"I'm sorry, _Bruder_. I should have told you this sooner, but…I need you. You can't – you _won't_ – leave until I stop breathing. You are a part of me. I never wanted anything to happen to you."

Gilbert's mouth pulled down slightly as he studied his brother. "How can you be sure, West?"

Ludwig looked incredulously at Gilbert. He had just poured out his soul and yet Gilbert remained unmoved. His brother could be _so_ stubborn.

Ludwig folded his arms across his chest, not knowing what else to say. He felt something crinkle in his jacket pocket. The program. He took it out, examined it once more, then handed it to Gilbert.

"What's this? Self-help brochure?"

"No. It was an exhibition one of my museums held. About you."

Gilbert took the program, red eyes scanning the photos of various art and industrial objects that had come from Prussia. That had come from _him._

"I wish you could have seen the show," Ludwig said, looking over his brother's shoulder as Gilbert continued to flip through the images of his old artifacts. "This program doesn't do it justice. It's a small thing in comparison."

"No, it's not," Gilbert whispered. "It's perfect."

"You _are_ still Prussia, _Bruder._ And I could never have existed without you."

Gilbert hastily wiped his eyes. He would blame it on the cigarette smoke, no doubt. "Do you know who I thought I saw tonight?"

"Who?"

"The old man. Germania."

Ludwig furrowed his brow, trying to remember. Gilbert had talked about him when they were younger, but Ludwig never had a clear picture in his head as to what he actually _looked_ like.

"I don't think it was him, though," Gilbert continued. "But I began to wonder, what _did_ happen to him? Is he still out there somewhere? Where do we go when we no longer have people who call themselves ours?"

"I assume we find out…in time."

"And that's my problem! What if my time is now?"

Ludwig dropped his head into his hands. He was so tired and the logic was _so_ simple. Why couldn't his brother understand? Gilbert was very much a part of him, and as long as Ludwig honored that part, nothing could, or would, happen to Prussia.

"…So you're ready to give up so easily?" Ludwig asked, not knowing what else to say.

Gilbert flicked away his cigarette, promptly lighting another. "Maybe I deserve it," he whispered.

Ludwig picked his head up, blue eyes widening at his brother's words.

"…There are things…I did…as East. Things I'm not ready to…things I can't – "

Ludwig realized with an icy sinking in his stomach, Gilbert was beginning to open up about his time on the other side with Russia. But now was not the time. Gilbert still wasn't ready. Not yet. Ludwig was all too familiar with how much time it took a nation to heal from its past.

"We _all_ have things we'd rather forget_,_" Ludwig said softly. "It just takes time. Your past will not unmake you. And the people will grow and change and come to an understanding, just like we must."

Gilbert leaned his head against his brother's shoulder, closing his eyes. "So it will be forgiven then? In time?"

Ludwig reached up, stroking the familiar strands of silver. "Of course it will."

Overhead, fingers of pink and orange snaked themselves through the sky, chasing away the inky night. Dawn's brightening light shone against Gilbert's eyelids. He shivered slightly in the crisp morning air. A hand, heavy, yet comforting gripped his shoulder. Ludwig pulled Gilbert closer.

"You are still Prussia to me, _Bruder._ Nothing will ever happen to you. I promise."

Gilbert felt himself nod slowly. _I know, West_.

Something hot and wet traced a path down his cold cheek. A tear.

In the distance, he thought he heard church bells. But that was just a memory.


	17. Epilogue  Just Watch the Fireworks

_I promised I'd see this with you now_

_-Jimmy Eat World, "Just Watch the Fireworks"_

* * *

><p><strong>Epilogue – Nov. 9, 2009<strong>

"Are you going to spend all _night_ in the bathroom?" Ludwig called.

"I'm just fixin' my hair!"

"Since when have you ever cared how your hair looked? You're worse than Austria."

"If we're gonna be on TV – "

"_We're_ not. Our boss _is_. We're merely going as spectators."

"Oh, fine!" Gilbert grumbled, yanking open the door.

Ludwig counted as each booted footstep thudded against the wooden stairs. Honestly, he thought, Gilbert would never be happy until he managed to put his foot _through_ the poor steps. Another thud, this one reverberating throughout the house, and Ludwig knew his brother jumped the last step, coming down hard on the landing. Using the doorframe, Gilbert swung himself into the living room, crooked grin in place and hair its same disheveled mess.

"Well? How do I look?"

Ludwig looked up from his newspaper, skeptically cocking an eyebrow at Gilbert's entrance. "Are you…done?"

"West, you wouldn't know style if it bit you in the ass," Gilbert said, poking a finger in his brother's chest.

"You didn't answer my question," Ludwig said, standing.

"Yes! I'm done, West. Are we goin' now or what?"

"Okay. I just wanted to make sure." Ludwig started for the door, grabbing a coat off the hall rack. "You…you _are_ okay with this, right?"

"I told you a thousand times, _Bruder_, of course I am!"

"I just – "

"'Wanted to be sure,'" Gilbert said, rolling his eyes and finishing his brother's statement. "I know. And I am. So start walking, West, or I'm leaving your ass here."

"Okay."

Ludwig opened the front door and the brothers stepped out into the crisp evening air. He suggested they walk to the Gate. Gilbert complained, as he usually did now when asked to do anything physically exerting, but Ludwig knew it was only half-hearted gripes. Besides, he'd rather listen to those than Gilbert shouting insults out the car window while they were stuck in city traffic.

* * *

><p>As they reached the Brandenburg Gate, Gilbert's long-legged strides slowed, and Ludwig more than once found himself having to double back to walk beside his brother. For all of Gilbert's assurances at wanting to see the celebration, his footsteps became more hesitant the closer they got until halting altogether outside the wide half-circle of spectators.<p>

On the jumbo-tron monitors, Gilbert could see their chancellor making a speech, but her voice was lost to him for all the lights and people. The crowd cheered, voices uniting as one, as something shot up overhead – a firework, tracing an orange path ever upwards until it exploded in a shower of white. Gilbert jumped at the sounds, his fixation on the crowd and the Gate broken. He lowered his gaze and found Ludwig, brow wrinkled, staring at him a few paces ahead.

Gilbert's face cracked into its old crooked grin as he sprinted up to his brother. "C'mon West, I know a better place to watch." He took Ludwig's hand, leading him to the park near the Gate.

Gilbert quickly located a thick-trunked, ancient tree.

"Gimme a boost, will ya?"

"You want to _climb_ that thing?"

"Yeah. It'll be like when we were younger. Remember all that tromping around we did in the woods?"

"Yes, but I was a _kid_ then – "

"Oh, don't be such a wimp," Gilbert said, already clawing at the bark looking for a good hand-hold.

Reluctantly, Ludwig laced his fingers, forming a makeshift step for his bother's boot heel. Gilbert planted one foot in his brother's palms and Ludwig pushed him up towards the first branch.

Once he was up in its crook, Gilbert reached a hand down for his brother. Ludwig took it and began the scrambling ascent.

Gilbert climbed four more branches before settling on one that was wide enough to hold them both. Dangling his legs over the side, he watched as his brother climbed awkwardly up.

"C'mon West! I taught you better than that!"

"I_ know_," Ludwig ground out as he hoisted his tall frame over the second branch. "But I am a lot _older _now."

"Not as old as me! I'm gonna start calling you 'Austria' if you don't hurry up!" Gilbert laughed down.

Ludwig looked up, seeing his smirking brother, and smiled to himself. He remembered not too long ago when that slanted grin was forced, when Gilbert started at the slightest sound. When he could not hide the slight tremor in his shoulders. When Gilbert was afraid of losing himself….

It _had_ taken time, and would still continue to need more, but at least now he could look at his brother and see the honesty reflected in that cocky smile. He could see his brother emerging again.

Ludwig hauled himself up to the branch on which Gilbert perched. It dipped and joined another, growing as one, forming almost a cradle. Ludwig leaned his back against the trunk, thankful the climb was over. The branches above parted, letting them see the stage and screens in front of the Gate.

Gilbert stood on the branch, holding his arms out like a gymnast on a balance beam, and walked over to Ludwig.

"We've got the best seats here, _Bruder,_" he said, easing himself down beside Ludwig.

The tall blonde breathed a low hum of agreement.

"I think the finale's about to start," Gilbert said, turning his face skyward. A ghost of a frown flickered briefly across it as he awaited the fireworks to brighten the sky.

"Do you ever miss it?" Ludwig asked, catching the slight change in his brother's expectant face.

Gilbert shrugged. "There are some things I miss, and some things I don't. I try not to think about it too much. There's always those damn muddy areas in between the good and the bad that mess me up."

"Yeah. I know what you mean."

"'Sides, there's one thing over here that I never had over there."

"Oh really? What's that?"

"The chance to harass you every day!" Gilbert snaked a strong arm around his brother's neck, mussing the blonde's perfect hair with his other hand.

"Real mature," Ludwig frowned, fighting to get his hands up and straighten his appearance.

"West, just shut up and watch the goddamn fireworks," Gilbert smirked, wrapping his arms around his brother tighter, holding him secure the way he used to when Ludwig was younger.

Ludwig sighed, giving in and throwing his own arm around Gilbert's shoulder, and was pleased to note his brother no longer flinched away and his shoulders were relaxed and calm. Not tense. Not shaking.

Gilbert rested his head against his brother's. Both sets of eyes were trained on the night sky, waiting for it to erupt. Gilbert almost wished the night could stretch infinitely on. He didn't need to see the fireworks – he was happy in this simple moment of waiting with his brother. For the first time in countless decades, he was not hounded by an unappeasable restlessness. Anger no longer howled its demands at him. For the first time, he was content. He could wait. And wait….

The first rocket flew high, bursting in a shimmer of color before the embers faded, etching a smoky impression of their brief magnificence before being scattered by the wind.

**Ende**

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN **First of all, I want to thank **everyone** who's stuck it through this crazy cocktail of a story! Thank you to all the readers/favoriters/reviewers! I can't tell you how much I appreciate it. A year since I began it, it's finally done. I also want to say, just because this is the end of the multi-chapter does not mean it's the end of the story. I plan on writing one-shots spun off from it. These mostly will be moments taken from various times throughout the story, so there won't be much plot…think of it more as a captured moment, just a series of impressions from the other characters. When I post these one-shots, I'll note it in the summary if it's a part of the Soul to Take series._


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